


A Fire Shall be Woken

by Nekraan



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Action, Chapter 7 is pure sin, Death, Developing Relationship, F/F, Grinding, Groping, Implications, Is there plot here?, Kissing, Light Angst, Orgasm, POV Multiple, Simultaneous Orgasm, Slightly sub con, Slow Burn, Smut, Someone stop me, Talking, Teasing, Torture, Touching, Vaginal Fingering, Violence, okay theres a lot of angst, we are all crying, yes there is
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-13
Updated: 2018-03-19
Packaged: 2018-08-30 20:56:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 61,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8548855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nekraan/pseuds/Nekraan
Summary: Overwatch has been disbanded. The world that once saw them as heroes now think of them as terrorists and zealots. Specters haunt their shadows, predators seeking to destroy those who still remain. Caught in the gulf between being admired and feared, the agents of the once loved organisation have gone into hiding. But something wants them out. Something wants them to fight. And it takes only a minor gust of wind to rekindle the embers of Overwatch.





	1. Ghosts

The sun had stood high when the small walk she’d decided to take had turned into an excursion. Her plan had been to get out of the flat for a while. Away from the memories and chasing thoughts. But soon her recollections had taken her down familiar paths and she’d ended up in the last place she was supposed to be in.

Now the sun hung low in the sky. Earlier she had revelled in it, found comfort in its presence. It had been caressed softly by grey clouds which dulled both its light and warmth, but that was hours ago. It was close to setting now, taking with it the heat and golden shine of the day.

She groaned as she pulled at yet another piece of wreckage. A large piece of iron, which could at one point have been considered to be a container of some sort, was lodged firmly in front of the doors leading into the abandoned warehouse. It had taken the better part of an hour to get it cleared and now this poor excuse of a blockage was the only thing barring entry.

It finally moved, snapping back as if someone had cut a chain fusing it to the doors. Surprisingly, they opened easily. The hinges barely sighed as she pushed them open and walked into the building.

There was hardly anything left.

She didn’t know what she had expected. The last time she’d been there, the place had been alive. Filled with people working, machines buzzing. Horrible coffee being consumed by the gallons.

She could see it in her mind now. The hangar that managed the small drones they’d used to survey battlefields and seek out wounded hidden under fallen debris. The practice range, where enthusiastic scientists had created heat seeking visors and beam weapons capable of locking onto living tissue - be it to mend wounds or create them. A time where this building had been one of thousands in a network spanning cities and continents.

Now there were just dark stains on the floor and tables with cracked surfaces scattered across the base of the warehouse.

This place had been raided, she knew. Overwatch had too many enemies, it was impossible to keep them all away. Like hyenas they had crawled over the abandoned carcass of the once loved organization, snatching up any and all little trinket the fleeing agents might have left behind.

After that came scavengers, junkers. Petty criminals had drifted in and out of the building, used it as a meeting place. Some people had used it for sleeping. She could see where trash and fabric had been shoved together into makeshift beds. _At least it’s good for something_.

She took another hesitant step into the warehouse. Every slight movement was made louder by the resounding echo of the building. Her steps were tossed back at her, her breathing magnified. The light clicks of her jumper-zipper tapping against her harness.

There was no danger that she would be recognized like this. Her image had been plastered on every screen, every wall, every monitor after Overwatch disbanded. The merry little lightning. A cheery smile, teasing and inviting, always playing on her lips. She hadn’t felt that smile for months now, nor had she felt the power of what she once was.

Instead of her usual outfit, she wore a dark hoodie and a heavy beanie to cover her brown hair. She had tried to keep its spikiness under control, but the locks refused to obey even the most powerful of hairsprays. There was no insignia, no mark to give her away. As long as she hunched slightly to keep the bump on her chest out of sight, she was just another face in the crowd.

There was a crash.

She spun towards the sound, hand already inside her pocket, gripping her gun tight. It wasn’t one of her old pistols, they would be too recognizable, but it had a similar design. She had gotten too used to its style to give it up willingly. The hum in her chest grew louder.

Then… a laugh.

It was light, female. Had she heard it in another setting she would have found it charming, albeit a bit condescending. But the warehouse boosted it from a low purr to an almost manic crescendo.

“To find someone like you in a place like this. _Interesante._ ”

The voice was everywhere and nowhere at the same time. It bounced gleefully, cutting along the walls and roof as if it flew on wings.

She pulled her gun from her pocket, and the laugh grew louder. 

“Now, that is just rude. Did your mother not teach you your manners?”

“I’d love a chit-chat, luv,” she said, scanning the room still. “Why don’t you come out where I can see your pretty face?”

The voice _tsked_ at her.

“Sweet girl. So full of hope. I’d thought they’d crushed that a long time ago. It seems nothing can keep you down. Little _Lena_.”

Lena froze. _She knows. She knows who I am._

The past few months had taught her to run away from her name. If it was mentioned, whispered, it meant danger. It meant that she would have to flee again, find a new place where she could forget Lena Oxton. Forget the girl she used to be.

But here… now. Now was different. Now they were alone.

Tracer drew in a breath as she let the familiar power of the her chronal accelerator rush through her bones, sending her flying forwards. Her eyes scanned the building, searching the nooks and platforms for movement. No one could run from Tracer when she had her eyes on you.

A flutter. To the left. A slash through the air of grey and purple light. She shot forward again, a smile rising to her lips from her forgotten speed.

“ _Catch me if you can!”_

The voice was behind her somehow and Tracer started. No one was that fast. No one except herself. “Too afraid to face me one on one?”

Another laugh. Closer now. Moving off to her right, down towards the exit. Where was this hidden speaker?

She knew something was wrong. The old Tracer would never had blinked forward as she did now, but anger and excitement made her careless. This was Overwatch space, _her_ space. This woman was intruding and she knew Lena’s identity. She’d been trailed before, Talon agents following her from a distance, assassins lying in wake near her flats. It all started with her name. Always with her name.

Tracer zipped ahead, following the sound of mocking laughter. Outside, the remaining light from the sun cast faint shadows on the floor. Dust was dancing in the air, a piece of newspaper fluttered by the doors. Then, out of nowhere, a silhouette appeared behind her followed by the familiar, dreadful tick of a bomb being detonated.

“ _Apagando las luces!_ ”

There was nothing she could do. She wanted to blink. She wanted to turn back her time. But the bomb came soaring anyway, and it was all Tracer could do to throw up her arms to protect herself as the bomb went off with a very unsatisfying boom.

Tracer staggered, carried forward by the expectation of hot air and shrapnel about to blow her to pieces, but nothing happened. She wasn’t hurt.

Then she noticed. Her chronal accelerator had gone out. Its blue light, so normal now that it had become a comfort, was gone from her chest, and she felt bile of terror rise in her stomach.

 _Not again_ , she thought, clawing at the accelerator as if will could make it work. She would be drifting again. Drifting in time, between dimensions. Stuck forever between the planes of existence, screaming with no one hearing her. No one would be able to help. No one _knew_ that they should help. She was alone here.

Then a blue shimmer started back in her chest and relief flushed over her in rapid waves. A laugh made of giddy panic and fear rushed through her body and she found herself kneeling on the floor, smiling at the filthy concrete beneath her shaking hands.

“Now, why would you try to chase me down like that?” As the voice spoke, a form started materializing in front of Tracer. The air trickled in short, breaking waves and slowly a person appeared out of nothing. A woman, only a few years Tracer’s senior, wearing a short, dark jacket lined with purple stripes that matched those drawn into the side of her scalp. No, not drawn. _Infused._

In fact, her whole body seemed to shimmer with energy. Sharp, violet claws were connected to wires running on top of her hands and disappearing into her sleeves. The same power seemed to pulse through them as gleamed through the permeated bands on the side of her head. In one hand she held onto a short, automatic machine pistol. In the other, she held Tracer’s gun. She’d dropped it in the commotion.

By instinct, Tracer stood to reach for it, but stopped when the woman twisted her hand as if turning an invisible knob. The light in the accelerator immediately dimmed significantly.

“Ah, ah, ah,” the woman said, waving a finger at her. “You really are rude, _amiga_. A little appreciation would be nice.”

“Appreciation?” Tracer’s voice was hoarse from fear, but she forced herself to laugh. It sounded shrill and fake. “What is there to be appreciative about? You’ve stolen my gun, luv.”

“I intend to give it back, don’t worry. It’s not like it’s one of the ones you really like.”

Tracer felt a cold chill run down her spine. She knew things. Things no one in her position should know.

The woman made a dismissive gesture with her hand, still smiling playfully. “Don’t look at me like that. You are not in danger, _mija_. I just prefer to keep everything in order. I have to make sure that you won’t call the cavalry while my back is turned.”

“Haven’t heard that one before…” Tracer groaned.

“ _No?_ Not in a while I expect. Dangerous, isn’t it? To go so long without your… friends.” She tapped the accelerator with the butt of her pistol. It flickered dangerously. “What if something were to break? I hope you’re handy with a screwdriver, _pobrecita_.”

Tracer looked the woman over again. Her face was so close that she could see the faint blue in her purple eyes. Her smile seemed to be permanently attached, sometimes revealing white teeth behind violet lipstick. Close enough to feel the warmth from her breath.

Tracer darted for the gun in the woman’s hand, but found herself grasping at nothing. The woman had vanished into thin air. Or, more correctly, Tracer had. Somehow, her accelerator had activated without her doing, moving her a few feet to the right.

“A work of genius, really.” The woman’s voice was trill with humour. “Allows you to manipulate you own time, yes? Pretty clever. But not clever enough.”

Realization dawned on Tracer in a terrifying breath. This woman, this _creature_ , was controlling the accelerator somehow.

“You can’t run, _mija_.” The smile was still on her face, but her eyes had turned from teasing to dangerous. She reminded Tracer of a cat she’d seen once, playing with a dying mouse.

The woman took a step back, trickling away into the shadows. When she spoke again, her voice came from somewhere in the rafters. “I know all about you, Lena Oxton.”

Tracer got to her feet. “Who _are_ you!?”

The woman laughed loudly. “Ah, that old question! You wouldn’t believe how many times I have heard that one. Do you have any idea what some people will do to answer it? They’ll try letters, articles. They even did a song once. All to find out the identity of someone who does not want to be discovered. _¿Quién es Sombra?_ Question old as time.”

“Sombra?”

“If you wish.” The woman, Sombra, appeared on a platform high up in the warehouse. She was leaning on the railing, twirling Tracer’s gun casually. “You know; you are a difficult woman to get a hold off. Always sulking away, dreaming about what once was. Aren’t you a little young to be this nostalgic?”

“At least I don’t go about calling myself ‘shadow’. Where did you get the idea? The hedgehog, maybe. Or did your dad not give you enough attention and this is just a phase you're going through?”

“You can speak Spanish?” Sombra sounded intrigued by this little fact. Tracer smiled, letting fear turn her grin toothy.

“I can do a lot of things, luv.”

“I am aware, _mija_. But secrets flow faster than facts. They create more, what you say… _energy_.”

Tracer glanced back at the still open doors. If she just ran…

There was a sharp click from a cocking pistol and Tracer froze. Her skin pricked where the gun barrel was pressing against her neck. _How had she gotten down here so fast?_

“You might know things, but you don’t know enough. You don’t have the power here.” She pushed the gun beneath Tracer’s chin, forcing her to look into her eyes. Sombra was still smiling. _Did she ever stop smiling?_ “You want to run. Because that’s what you do, little Tracer. Run away, always. From everything and everyone. But I can help you. I can give you back what you want.”

“How do you know what I want?”

“Oh, _mija_. You need better questions.” Sombra opened her free hand, producing a small, purple square of light. It flickered as she tossed it in the air, extending into a ribbon of screens and pictures.

They were camera feeds, projecting recordings from the old Watchpoint in Gibraltar. She’d been there a few times, back when Overwatch was not treated as a bloody terrorist group. Now Winston was the only one remaining. The only one still left in their old world.

It took a while before she noticed that there was movement in the pictures. People in dark clothes, darting between the buildings to avoid being spotted. Soldiers. _Talon_.

“What is this?” Tracer extended a hand as if to touch the purple projections, but Sombra closed her hand, extinguishing their light before Tracer's fingers could reach them.

“So many questions asked, all of them wrong.” Sombra trailed a finger along Tracer’s jawline. She had half a mind to bite it. “They are looking for power. My kind of power.”

“Neon infused clothing?”

Sombra waved her off with a laugh. “You are amusing. I understand why your face was centred on every poster Overwatch put out. That smile is to _die_ for. But _relajar_ , I didn’t come here to make small talk.”

“What then, huh? Seems like there’s nothing on your mind ‘cept for chatting.”

Sombra returned the screens, moving them around at the will of her clawed fingers. There was now an inside feed of the Watchpoint. Winston was sitting by his computer, seemingly watching a news broadcast, all the while the dark-clothed Talon operatives were breaking down the outer doors. And to Tracer’s surprise and horror, Athena didn’t report anything.

“Chatting is a gateway, _mija_. You can learn more in ten minutes of conversation than you can learn from a hundred pages in a book.”

The Talon soldiers were inside now. Athena remained quiet. Winston was still sitting by his computer.

“What are you doing?” Tracer stumbled to the floating screens, as if she could somehow change the outcome by being closer to them. “Why isn’t he reacting?”

“I don’t want him to.” Sombra fluttered out several other purple screens, some handling text, others pictures. All of them featuring Tracer and Winston as a focus. There was even a small, square one that Lena recognized as the polaroid Winston kept by his desk. A private, happy picture of the two of them.

“Here’s the thing,” Sombra pushed most of the files away, leaving only a few pictures and the live feeds behind. _She was still bloody smiling_. “I can make this have a different turnout. It doesn’t have to go the way that Talon wishes. I just need you to do a small thing for me.”

“You’re lying.” Tracer turned to glower Sombra in the eye. The action didn’t faze her, she just smiled wider. “You’re lying!”

Sombra grinned and tapped a few buttons generated by her pulsing gloves. Athena’s intruder alert immediately started blaring across Winston’s computer screens, making the scientist look around with sudden resolve. Tracer felt cold shivers run across her body. The Talon agents were inside, a familiar shadow following their steps.

“See, _Lena_ , I know things. You have to in my position, and frankly if you don’t it’s just unprofessional. But, as I’ve found out-” She edged a glowing hand around Tracer’s shoulders, tugging at her possessively. “You could know things too. And you would barely have to do anything. Just know that in the future, I might need your help.”

“I’d never help you.” Tracer shrugged Sombra’s arm off. “I know your type, selling information to the highest bidder. You’ll bring this straight to Talon.”

Sombra chuckled softly and glanced at the screens. Winston was clashing with the soldiers now, tossing them around as if they were dolls. Behind them, the foggy shadow soared through the office with chilling purpose.

“Clock’s ticking, _mija_.”

Winston contorted as the soldiers came at him again. His roar was mute, but Lena swore she could feel it in her stomach. She glared at Sombra. “And what if I refuse?”

Sombra flicked at one of the video screens. It grew larger and low sound rumbled out, magnified by the echoing space of the warehouse. Athena’s crisp, robotic voice boomed through the building.

“ _Security protocols breached. Winston, Reaper is extracting the Overwatch agent database_.”

Tracer froze in place. Her mouth was agape. _They’d know,_ she thought. _Talon would know_.

Tracer had made a habit of running. She was good at it, there was nothing holding her back. She’d have to leave her friends behind after the disbandment on fear of prosecution. She thought of them, their smiling faces. Angela and Reinhardt. Torbjörn, Jesse. Winston. What would this do to them? They could not run like she did, they had people that cared for them. Responsibilities. Lena only had herself. Talon could never hope to catch her, not ever. But the others… they would be found out. Taken without warning.

She turned to Sombra.

“What do I have to do?”

“ _Por fin_ , a good question!” Sombra tossed a little purple square around, letting it roll cosily around her. “At some point I might ask you for a favour in getting some information. Just a small act of politeness, you wouldn’t even notice it. And I will need you to do what I say, when I say. Without silly enquiries.”

Tracer glanced back at the screens. Winston was contorting painfully as the Talon soldiers fired coils of winding lighting beams that snared around his body like rope.

She thought of him now. Of his worried face. That had been the first thing she’d seen when she had returned.

After the Slipstream accident she had drifted, a haunt traveling through moments of history, present and future. There was light, then darkness. No shapes, no voices. Existence was barely tolerable.

And then she’d found an anchor. A catalyst of light and energy, pulling her, inviting her in. She’d felt the weight of herself, she’d heard noises beyond the rush of timeless space. And then he’d been there, catching her as she fell, holding her up as she tried to walk. He’d held her, letting her tears be private from the world. He’d told her that she was home, that she was safe. That she would never have to disappear again.

“You are running out of time.”

The screens read 75 %. Talon almost had their list.

“What will you do once you have this information?”

She gave a smile that was different from the ones previous. There was no playing in this one, no teasing or mischievous façade. It was hungry. Consuming.

“Power, _mija_.”

It wasn’t a direct answer, but it made Tracer’s skin crawl. There was no compassion in her voice. No thought of the scientist on the screen frantically working to survive Reaper’s onslaught. The gorilla had fought him off for now, even driven him away it seemed, but the Talon system was still tapping into Athena’s network.

88 %.

“Alright.”

Sombra raised a split eyebrow.

93 %

“I said I’ll do it! Whatever you want. Just, please… stop this!”

She grinned at Tracer, and it made her want to kick herself. “ _Tu deseo… mija_.”

Sombra jolted her hand and the screens in Winston’s office went black just as the bar hit 99 %. Tracer felt her heart bounce in her throat as the darkness engulfed the rooms, leaving the building dark and blank.

Then a small, blue light appeared on one of the screens and Athena’s clear voice trickled out through the speakers.

“ _Virus quarantined_.”

Tracer let out a sigh of relief at the same time Winston did. They were safe. They were all still safe. They wouldn’t have to run.

The purple screens shut down with a short _beep_ , and Tracer spun to find Sombra dangling Tracer’s pistol from her fingers. She did something with her hand, and the chronal accelerator in Tracer’s chest hummed as its light grew sharper. Tracer let out a long sigh. It felt as if she had been standing in mud and was now suddenly free to move again.

“I look forward to our cooperation, Lena Oxton.” Sombra’s voice was frighteningly cheerful. “I will be in touch soon. You won’t be left behind by me.”

Sombra raised two fingers to her forehead in mock salute, just as Tracer had been wont to do when she'd still been the poster child for Overwatch. Her smile was small, ever-present. Infuriatingly teasing. 

And then she vanished, fading into nothing just as when she’d appeared, Tracer’s gun clattering to the floor the only proof that she was ever there. Somewhere, Tracer could have sworn she heard a low laugh, but the building creaked enough to almost deafen the sound.

Then, her phone rang.

She fumbled for it in her pocket, bringing it to her ear with hands that shook.

“Winston? Is that you, luv?” Her voice sounded wrong. Too high and shrill. Sombra’s presence lured at her still, acting shadows in the corners of her eye. She fought to keep her cheery disguise. “It’s been too long.”

Winston’s booming voice resounded back from the phone speaker, threatening to make her burst into tears.

_“Yes. Yes, it has.”_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, so I am completely new to AO3 and have little idea of what I'm doing. This work is probably going to be long, have several chapters featuring many characters, interactions, shippings and stuff. Smut maybe. Probably. Very likely.
> 
> Kudos make me giddy, comments make me happy.
> 
>  
> 
> Also, can't improve what I don't now is wrong. I like it rough, don't be shy.


	2. Purpose

Pharah was seated on her assigned hospital bed when she started hearing the voices. She knew they weren’t real, knew that they couldn’t be. She’d been placed in here under the strict orders that she was to rest to allow her body to heal. She had said that she wanted to be left alone, but to be honest, being alone was the last thing she needed.

Her body felt heavy, as if the skies were resting on her shoulders. She knew that she should sleep - the doctors had told her that she _needed_ to sleep. But when she closed her eyes she saw his face. Heard his voice resonate in her dreams. So she stayed awake, elbows resting on her knees, head slumped forward, staring at nothing.

This could only last for a few hours, though. Her exhaustion didn't allow her to remain fully awake. She started slipping in and out of consciousness, so much so that she wasn’t sure when she was awake and when she was asleep. The sounds, the screams -they drifted through no matter the state she was in.

_We have to get him!_

She winced and looked away at the memory. His eyes. His young face. She wanted to keep the memory out. Bury it somewhere and never think of it again.

_Coward._

_I’m not a coward._

_Weakling_.

_I couldn’t help him._

_Liar._

She stood and punched the wall with such force that it left behind a small dent. Pharah grimaced at the pain shooting through her fingers. There were little red stains pooling on her knuckles. Her form was off.

_What could I have done more?_

_Saved him._

_I would have put the others in danger._

_Excuses._

She hit the wall again, this time following the blow with a low cry, the kind you did in private where no one could see the frailty of your strength. The kind that shook at the edges, threatening to tip over into tears. Some of the stitches on her stomach tore. Her white army top stained scarlet.

Why had he gone out there? Stupid, _stupid_ boy.

But she wasn’t surprised. She knew why he had left his position. She knew why he had left his cover behind. He never would have gone if she hadn’t let him.

Pharah chuckled softly as she remembered when she’d first seen the young recruit. Private Eli Haines, American, call sign Chipper. There had never been a more obvious nickname. He was always so damn happy.

When he’d first joined the team, he had fit in so well and fast Pharah had half believed him to be a sorcerer. Everyone had flocked around him, treating him like an old friend they hadn’t seen in years. In the barracks he was funny and charismatic. In the field he was reliable and brave. A good soldier. A good man.

And now he was dead. Because of her bad judgement.

 

_The Raptora suit nearly crashed into the building Pharah was using for cover when a bullet caught her in the side, sending her spinning out of control. It wasn’t a good shot, she doubted the shooter had even aimed for her, but a stray bullet hurt as much as one with purpose._

_She hovered inelegantly to the ground, and was immediately surrounded by her squad. Dice was already fiddling with her suit, trying to get to the bleeding._

_“Leave it,” Pharah groaned. “I’m fine.”_

_“But Captain-”_

_“I said leave it. Tend to the civs.” When he hesitated her steel gaze turned molten. “Are you deaf, medic? Move!”_

_Dice knew that voice and knew better than to disobey it. He scuttled off, leaving Pharah and his squadmates huddled behind a building whose edges where crumbled from the received gunfire. The distinct_ pop-pop-pop _of bullets sinking into concrete was a constant rain falling around them. She forced it to the back of her mind._

_Another rookie, a young woman called Risky, chirped at her. “Captain, we’re pinned down from here. Orders were to move eastward and secure the apartment complexes at the edge of town. But their forces-”_

_As if to underline her statement, there was a resounding boom followed by the sound of rubble falling where a grenade had hit the building. It wasn’t close enough to harm any of them, but it did put a start in their young eyes._

_“We’ll fall back, call reinforcements,” Pharah said. “Then we loop around them, catch them in the back. We move east after that.”_

_“But the civs…” Chipper said. He had a line of crimson over his eye where a piece of shrapnel had glanced his brow._

_“You can’t help them if you’re dead.”_

_Chipper gulped, but didn’t say anything. You didn’t argue with Captain Amari._

_“The civs who are here need covering fire. Hop will take front position, lead them back, while we will-”._

_Another crack interrupted her planning and they all covered their heads as a cascade of dust and rock rained down on them. Somewhere, someone coughed. Somewhere, someone screamed._

_Behind them, Dice, who had been tending to a civilian a little way off from where Pharah and her squad were holed up, was wailing in pain. For a moment, she didn’t understand why. He wasn’t pinned down by rocks, he looked as if he could move away if he wanted to. Then she noticed a stream of red polluting from his leg, trickling down over the dusty ground. He’d been shot. But how?_

_“Help me! Captain, help me! Please. It hurts!”_

_Pharah almost ran to him then and there. She made a move to stand, but was caught by the sudden pain surging through her abdomen. Her injury might be more severe than she’d first thought._

_“We have to get him!” Chipper said, but didn’t make a move. He was waiting for Pharah to give the order. He was a good soldier. A good man._

_She took another look at Dice, who was writhing towards them without progress, screaming all the while. Her face had turned pale. She felt as if she was moving through a fog. She found herself nodding._

_Chipper needed no more encouragement. He stood and ran, fast as he could. He skipped to the side, dodging nothing, but his movement would make him hard to hit if anyone tried. He closed in on Dice, who was reaching out for his comrade. Reaching for his friend._

_Then a boom._ Crack!

_Chipper’s head broke open like a cantaloupe, his helmet doing nothing to protect him as a bullet tore through his skull. He started falling mid-step, making his collapse even heavier and the thump that sounded when he landed was not one of a living man falling, but the one of a corpse being tossed in a grave._

_There was red and grey on the rocks. Blood and bone mixing together in a sick splatter. One of her soldiers shouted something. Another stood as if to run forward, but was held back from doing so. And a section of words was repeated around her, over and over again._

_Dead. Trap. Sniper._

 

A soft knock startled Pharah out of her train of thought. She turned, finding that the door was open and a woman was standing in it. Her elegant fingers were raised and curled where they had tapped the doorframe. Her blond hair was tied into a messy ponytail, letting some loose locks fall pleasantly in front of her blue eyes.

“Am I interrupting?” Her voice had a light, but distinct accent. It took Pharah a moment to recognize the woman.

“Dr. Ziegler.” Pharah straightened in surprise, making sure her voice was calm before she said anything further. “I didn’t know that you were- I thought you were still stationed in Switzerland.”

“Dr. Ziegler?” Angela’s voice sounded amused. “You haven’t called me that since you were a child.”

Her eyes drifted to the red stain on Pharah’s stomach. Her brows snapped together. “They told me your injuries weren’t serious.”

Pharah looked down, feeling her wound sting uncomfortably at the movement.

“I’m fine. It’s barely a scratch.”

“Scratches don’t change the color of your shirt like that.” Angela looked at her in a way that reminded Pharah eerily of her mother. Not quite disappointingly, but something reassembling it. Worry mixed with frustration. Angela made a slight gesture towards the blood on Pharah’s top.

“May I?”

Pharah hesitated. She didn’t particularly want anyone seeing her like this, so close to coming apart. She hadn’t seen her squad since they’d dragged her into a medic van to be taken away. She’d been told that they had returned, that they were successful in retrieving Dice from the field, alive nonetheless. After that, nothing.

She nodded and sat back on the hospital bed, straightening so Angela could get a better look at her stomach.

“What are you doing here, doc?” Her voice was terser than she’d wanted it, but Angela ignored it as she washed her hands in a nearby basin.

“Working,” she said simply, opening the medical bag she had carried inside with her. Her movements were innate as she pulled out gauze and string, arranging them on the bed next to Pharah.

“You could be _working_ anywhere. People still remember Mercy.”

Angela smiled. “I haven’t been called that in a long time. Though it’s nice to know that people haven’t forgotten.”

Pharah winced as Angela pulled up her shirt and started washing the blood away. It stung, but not badly enough to warrant concern. Angela pulled out the torn stitches as gently as she could. Pharah felt her skin prickle where Angela’s cool hands brushed against it.

“I haven’t seen you since-”

“-the funeral,” Pharah interrupted. Her voice was even, without emotion. She averted her eyes when Angela looked up from her work. “Please don’t say anything. I don’t need my mother’s ghost haunting my every decision.”

“Your mother was proud to have you as a daughter.”

Pharah scoffed, biting her lip as Angela’s needle pricked through her skin. “She disapproved of this life. You know, don’t act like you don’t.”

Angela didn’t say anything. She sewed silently, making Pharah groan whenever she hit a particularly sore spot. Once she was done, it seemed as though Angela’s hands lingered on her stomach, just for a moment, before she retracted them.

“Why are you here?” Pharah asked again. Angela raised an eyebrow.

“I told you already.”

“You’re working?”

“Yes.”

Pharah waited for her to continue, but Angela seemed to be stuck in thought. Her eyes dropped, her mouth fell slightly agape. Pharah noticed the dark bruises under her eyes, hidden beneath a thin layer of makeup. This was how she’d seen her the first time they’d met.

Her mother had taken Pharah with her to work, even though taking her might be the wrong term, since Pharah had lived and breathed anything that was Overwatch when she was a child.

 _Doctor Ziegler, I’d like to introduce you to my daughter._ Her mother had urged her forward, ignoring the puzzled look on her daughter’s face. _Fareeha, this is Angela. She’s a doctor._

Pharah had been eleven at the time, and only just barely, but she knew enough to see that Angela was not a normal doctor. She had been dressed in plain colors under a doctor’s jacket that looked slightly too big for her slender frame. 16 years old, and yet so adult. Nights of study and hard work had made her brow look furrowed and the deep circles under her eyes were quickly discovered to be nigh permanent.

Then, she had smiled at Fareeha and taken her small hand in hers, and she looked like the young girl she hadn’t been allowed to be. Pharah looked at Angela’s graceful fingers now and noticed that they were smaller than her own. Soft and fine, devoid of scars and imperfections. Hands that had saved lives. What had her own done in comparison?

Pharah stood, careful not to pull at her stitches too much, and found that she was standing barely an inch from Angela. She was almost a head taller than the doctor. Angela took a deep breath.

“I came to ask for your help.”

Pharah frowned. “Why would you need my help?”

Angela looked over her shoulder, as if some shadow might have snuck into the room without them noticing. When she spoke, her voice was a whisper. “Overwatch.”

The word made something in Pharah jump. She didn’t know what, exactly. Something that had been hidden, something dormant deep inside her chest.

It had always been her dream to join the organization, her mother had helped see to that. Even if she hadn’t meant to. For so long Pharah had seen people filled with determination and talent surge through the agency, leaving behind legacies and honorable history. Ana Amari had been a living picture of the dream Pharah carried in her heart. A soldier bent on helping those around her.

But when her mother had died it had done something to Pharah’s mind. The thought of Overwatch left a bitter taste in her mouth. She saw her mother’s ghost in the crooks of the organization, in the faces of the people who didn’t see Fareeha, just the daughter of Ana Amari.

_This isn’t what I wanted for you._

Pharah scowled thinking of that particular conversation. The Eye of Horus had been fresh on her skin. She’d gotten it the day she was accepted into the Egyptian army. She had thought her mother would have approved.

“Winston has called us back to active duty.” Angela gave a little smile. “I feared that no one would answer, to be honest. Winston contacted me personally, and I had a meeting with Torbjörn, but otherwise…”

“Tracer?”

She laughed. A lovely, bright laugh that was so inviting that Pharah almost joined in. “Who do you think Winston called first? They always had a bond, those two.”

Pharah felt as if she was going to fall if she didn’t sit down. Resting herself on the hospital bed, she was still almost of even height to Angela. She’d never noticed how blue her eyes were.

“I haven’t kept in contact with many from before the disbandment, but Winston has kept tabs on all the old agents. It looks like Talon is hunting us down. They seemed particularly interested in Lena for a good while, but she is hard to catch. We think that they are trying to stop us from putting Overwatch back together.” She ran a hand through her messy hair. “What better way than to eliminate those few that remain loyal?”

“Are you in danger?” Pharah asked, surprised by the sincerity of the question. Angela smiled tiredly.

“Of course. I have been since I joined Overwatch. That doesn’t mean that I get to stop.”

That wasn’t what Pharah had expected. She looked at the doctor again, looked past the tired eyes and the taut smile. Right now, Pharah didn’t see Angela as the renowned medic or as the lifesaving hero that her Valkyrie suit made her out to be, despite the hardness of her face. She just saw the 16-year-old who had held Fareeha’s small hand in hers and asked if she wanted to be an Overwatch agent like her mother was.

Now she was asking again.

“I am sorry.” Pharah looked down to avoid Angela’s gaze. “I can’t.”

“Why not?”

 _Why not?_ Such a simple question with too many answers. Because she had responsibilities with Helix to uphold. Because her squad needed her guidance. Because it was her mother’s wish that she didn’t have the same life she did.

“I just…” She turned away from Angela’s kind face. “It wasn’t what I was made to do. Overwatch was never meant for me.”

“Overwatch was meant for heroes.”

“I’m not a hero.”

“That’s not what I’ve heard. Dozens of successful missions, a commendation for distinguished service from the Egyptian army. The Anubis incident.”

Pharah recoiled at the mention of Anubis. Khalil’s death was still fresh in her mind, even after this many months. Chipper only made the memory stronger.

“I wanted to protect people.” Her voice was low and hoarse. She turned suddenly on Angela, making the woman take a startled step back. “I’ve already given my answer, _Mercy_. Overwatch is gone. Dead. There isn’t anything we can do about that. You can’t bring it back. No one can.”

Angela regarded her carefully and Pharah wanted to scream. She looked so much like her mother, so caring and kind. A part of her wanted Angela to embrace her as if she was a little girl again. Tell her that everything was going to be okay. The feeling of vulnerability was burning a hole in her chest.

“You’re right, we can’t.” When Angela put a hand on Pharah’s arm, it took most of her self-control not to shake it off. “Not without help.”

There was such pleading in her gaze. So much hope and faith. When was the last time Pharah had seen so much faith in a person’s eyes?

“The world is falling apart around us. Talon has been growing since Overwatch shut down. They are _planning_ something and we don’t know what. We need all the help we can get. It’s not going to be easy. The world will never be easy. But it is my duty to try and make it safer.”

Angela let go of her arm, and Pharah felt as if she’d been robbed of something vital inside herself. It had been so long since she’d found support in another person, even if it was just for a moment.

Angela packed her gear into her bag and produced a small business card from her pocket. She lay it on the bed.

“The number to my hotel. I’ll be staying until tomorrow. Call me if you change your mind.” She was halfway through the door when she paused and looked back at Pharah.

“And you’re wrong, just so you know.”

“Wrong about what?”

Angela smiled again. Her eyes were glassy. “Your mother _was_ proud of you. She always was, no matter the choices you made. She was just terrible at showing it.”

And then Mercy, the guardian angel, took a step forward and disappeared from the room, leaving Pharah feeling more alone than she'd ever felt.

In the silence that followed, her thoughts turned solemn again. She saw Ana’s face in her mind now. Not as she’d been in the picture above her casket, but young and vibrant. Strong arms lifting her up, teaching her to fight. Pharah had thought herself a disappointment to that image. To the mother who so obviously wanted a different life for her daughter, one without risk and suffering.

The image of Chipper lying in a pile of dirt and blood stole into her thoughts too. He had been her responsibility. He had trusted her to make the right call, to know all the factors. If she had just taken the time to look, to see the trap that was laid out for them, then Chipper would be with his squad now, making Risky laugh from a dumb joke. Embracing Hop like a brother. Standing by Dice’s bed as he healed.

How could her mother ever be proud of this fool she’d become? How could anyone?

But the hope in Angela’s face had been real. And not just hope. Faith. Trust. How could a woman like Angela, someone who had seen so much cruelty, who had sacrificed so much, possible trust her so blindly?

_This isn’t what I wanted for you._

_What did you want then?_

_That doesn’t mean that I get to stop._

_What is my purpose?_

She folded and unfolded the card Angela had left on the bed until its creases had grown smooth. Her mother disapproved of Pharah’s choices, there was no question. A mother wanted her daughter to be safe. But Ana Amari was no longer. Her shadow was not casting over Pharah’s anymore. Overwatch might have died, but it seemed that there was one person who could bring the dead back to life.

Pharah went to her pocket and pulled out her phone. She had calls to make.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tried to take it in a more speedy direction. Things are gonna happen, promise. Stay tuned


	3. Fight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The plot is picking up. After this it will move faster than a freight train

The building Winston had chosen as their meeting spot was surprisingly cozy, considering its covert and secretive purpose. While empty and old, it had an appeal that Mercy couldn’t quite put her finger on. She supposed the wild plants that had taken over the building lent a certain charm, and the little birds she’d seen nesting had made her smile.

Winston, who understandably had trouble moving around unnoticed, being a 500-pound gorilla, had picked a place close to his base in Gibralta, and Mercy had to admit that she was beginning to relish the warm air. First her trip to Egypt, and now she could enjoy a temperate evening in Sevilla.

“Angela!”

Any minor hope she’d had of making a dignified entrance was squished as a little, blue streak of light pounced into her chest, hugging her fiercely.

“Oh, I’ve missed you!” Tracer said, tightening her grip. “You haven’t aged a day!”

“Lena, my ribs,” Mercy said through a laugh, and Tracer let go. Like Mercy, she was wearing civilian clothing as to not make their business here too obvious. The young woman had exchanged her aviator jacket with a short, grey hoodie that hung loosely on her skinny body. Her face seemed bare without the iconic yellow goggles she usually wore, but her hair was as spiky as ever and her face was split in a familiar grin. Tracer shifted from foot to foot, as if the ground had suddenly caught fire. _That girl never could stand still._

“The big guy was worried you’d gotten lost,” she said, as they made their way through a small hallway. According to the signs on the walls, they were moving towards a cafeteria.

“Am I the last to arrive?”

Tracer shrugged, still smiling like a teenager. “Only just. Torb arrived barely a few minutes ago. He and Reinhardt are chatting up a storm in there! I fear that they will have started a knitting club by the time we get back.”

The walk through the building was barely short enough to be called a walk, but it gave Mercy enough time to become nervous. She’d hadn’t seen these people in so long. With the exception of Torbjörn and now Tracer, she hadn’t seen any of her old colleagues in months.

When they entered the cafeteria she was first taken aback by the beauty of the room. It had a high ceiling with large windows near the top to let in what light remained of the day. The abandoned tables and chairs were dusty, but their design was airy and modern, and lent a feel of calm professionalism to what could have otherwise been a glum dining hall.

Her sightseeing was cut short when a pair of huge arms grabbed ahold of her from behind and lifted her into the air as if she was nothing more than a child.

“Angela, _mein kleiner Engel!_ ” If the huge arms and fervent displays of affection weren’t enough to give him away, his voice certainly did.

“ _La_ _ß mich runter_ , Reinhardt!”

The huge German laughed and set her down gently. He was quickly joined by a significantly smaller man, who embraced her as well, though less aggressively.

“Good to see you again, lass,” Torbjörn said.

Mercy turned to look around at the rest of the group and found… no one. The giddiness in her chest turned cold and she felt her joy fade away as quick as it had appeared.

With the exception of Pharah and Winston seated at a table, talking just out of hearing range, the room was empty.

“Are we it?”

She saw the smiles die on the others’ faces. Tracer scraped at the floor with her shoe.

“Winston was the one who took contact. He sent word all over,” Reinhardt said, shifting into his accented English. “There weren’t-- Not many answered the call.”

“Stupid wankers,” Tracer muttered and kicked at a rock.

“Don’t be unfair, girl,” Torbjörn said sternly. “ _We_ might not have had any doubts of the necessity of this, but the world is different than it was. Folk are different.”

Tracer didn’t respond, just mumbled something inaudible and shoved her hands in her pockets.

“Jesse?” Mercy asked. Both men shook their heads.

“We can’t get in contact with him. He’s dropped off the map.” Reinhardt put a hand on Mercy’s shoulder. “But _we_ are here. That’s what matters.”

The delight Mercy had carried with her ever since Winston contacted her was fading. How had she thought that this would be easy? That this would be like the old days? Overwatch was outlawed, what they were doing right now was illegal.

She gave a faint smile and nodded, more to herself than to anyone else.

“Mercy.” Winston’s deep baritone made her straighten. The seriousness of his tone, put together with the fact that he hadn’t used her first name to greet her, made it clear that the time for pleasantries was over. He and Pharah had gotten up from where they had been sitting and they were walking towards them. “Good of you to join us.”

Pharah greeted Mercy with a smile and a nod. She looked different now that she wasn’t covered in blood and combat dust. Her black hair hung in small braids with gold inlays, matching the small buttons on her leather jacket. Like everyone else, except for Winston, she was dressed in common clothes, but she still wore the Horus tattoo by her eye exposed. Either she had forgotten to cover it, which was unlikely, or she had refused to do so.

The soldier looked over her shoulder, scanning the high windows as Winston started talking.

“I am honored to see you all here. When I decided on the recall, I was not sure who would be there to greet me on the other end. Time can change people and what people think. We have all felt that.

“And Captain,” he said, turning to Pharah. “I am glad you decided to join the cause. I know it wasn’t an easy choice to make, given the current climate.”

Pharah shot a quick glance at Mercy, who felt her cheeks grow hot at the humor in the soldier’s eyes.

“It took some convincing.”

“It doesn’t feel quite right without an Amari glowering at our necks,” Tracer said and the others laughed. She grinned at Pharah, whose brown eyes had turned slightly scowling. “See! She’s a natural. She’ll mother-hen us before old ticker strikes twelve.”

“I thought that was my job,” Mercy said dryly and Tracer’s eyes sparkled.

“I remember one time where Jesse used your Caduceus staff as a walking stick. Not much _Mercy_ to be found there, if memory suits my fancy.”

“He avoided the med bay for weeks afterwards, on fear that _Engel_ would snatch that ugly hat off his head and force him to eat it,” Reinhardt laughed.

“Please,” Mercy said dismissively. “I’m not that cruel.”

“However much I like talking about the old days,” Winston said, bringing them back to the present, “we are at somewhat of a crossroads.”

“Give us your plan, big guy.” Tracer had sat down, cross-legged, on a nearby table. Even seated she remained fidgety.

“I am ashamed to say that there isn’t much of one yet. We can’t come out of the shadows. In fact, I would prefer if no one knew that Overwatch was back in force. At least not until we have an actual _force_ to work with.”

“So what, then?” Reinhardt asked, crossing his arms. “We just sit around doing nothing?”

“We can’t afford to be foolish. Talon has made it clear that they want information on all the old agents. And it seems they aren’t alone.” Winston looked at Tracer. “Tell them what you told me. About the woman. This _Sombra._ ”

Tracer nodded and explained in quick words the exchange she’d had with the mysterious woman in an old, abandoned Overwatch facility just outside of Manchester.

“She knew things about me that no one should know,” Tracer said. She made a quick glance at Winston. “She could _do_ things. Things that you shouldn’t be able to do.”

“Was she Talon?” Pharah’s voice seemed cold in comparison to Tracer’s cheerful retelling. Mercy knew better. She recognized that tone easily, she had been scared half to death of it back when it was Ana Amari that had used it. So calm, so in control. 

“No. I mean…” Tracer groaned. “She couldn’t have been. She stopped them from extracting information on all of us. Why would she do that if she worked for them?”

“Then who? Who would need that kind of information if not Talon?” Mercy asked. _Just how many people in the world wanted them dead?_

Winston pushed up his glasses. “It would be logical for them to want information on our agents. But Lena is right. It doesn’t make sense that she should work for Talon. She would have let the agents get through Athena’s systems if that was the case. And we are already at risk as it is. Talon have gotten close to us a few times too many.” Once again Winston looked over at Tracer, who scoffed but didn’t say anything. Mercy looked down. She had heard of Mondatta’s assassination, everyone had. Tracer had been in the thick of it purely by accident. She’d barely escaped with her life; a feat few could attest to. It was well-known that wherever Widowmaker went, she always left a trail of corpses behind.

“So… now that we know that there is yet another ominous villain hanging on our coattails,” Tracer said sarcastically, “what do we do? Where do we start?”

“Small,” Winston said. “I’ve arranged for a new headquarters for us. Its precise location will remain unknown to you for time being, but once the facility is up and running I will send for you to join me there.”

“How long?” Pharah asked. She had turned away from the conversation, once again glancing at the windows by the ceiling.

“No more than a few days. Lay low until then. Talon is on the hunt for us, and I doubt they will rest for much. Widowmaker was last seen in Britain, as was this Sombra woman, but Talon moves fast. They could be here in Spain or around the world. There is no way for me to know.”

“Reaper?” Mercy asked.

“He’s more ghost than man,” Torbjörn grunted. “Something’s not right about those people. What Talon does… it’s not human.”

Mercy looked down, biting her lip. She didn’t say anything.

“But what after?” Tracer asked. She’d stopped swaying and sat still now. “What when we’ve set up? Then what are we supposed to do?”

Winston smiled. “Then we _fight_. We find people who are worthy of Overwatch, who believes in protecting those whom the world has set to be victims. Talon seeks to throw the world into disarray, and it is our duty to stop them succeeding. It won’t be easy. People won’t sing songs of us or tell stories. We aren’t heroes, we’re terrorists. In the eyes of the world, we are no better than those whom we fight.

“But it is up to us to prove them wrong. To show them that goodness still exists in the world, despite what the newspapers and holovids say. I believe, if we are valiant, we can truly--”

“When did you pick this place?”

Pharah’s interruption was so sudden that it surprised all on them. Her back was partially turned to them, her hand resting on her hip where Mercy could now see the holster of a pistol.

“Approximately twenty hours ago.” Winston turned, looking in the same direction Pharah did. Her eyes were back at the windows. “Is something the matter?”

Pharah slowly unclipped the gun from her belt, easing it into her hand. “This is a trap.”

The agents standing around her muttered. Reinhardt and Torbjörn gave Mercy a quick glance. They had all heard of Fareeha Amari’s conquests, if nothing else because of her parentage. They had watched from a distance as the daughter of one of their beloved officers grew into a brave and just soldier, willing to fight for what was right.

But they didn’t know the woman she’d become. They had known the girl, the child. They didn’t yet know how valid her judgement was.

“We need to get out of here. Winston, how many exits?”

The sudden switch from civilian to commander was clear. Her whole demeanor shifted as she fell into a familiar prose that only came from gritty experience. Mercy could have sworn she saw Reinhardt smile slightly, despite the dire circumstance.

“Seven that aren’t blocked off. But are you sure that--”

A loud and horrifyingly familiar _boom_ sounded through the building. None of them had time to react to the bullet cutting its way through the air, only to collide with the table Tracer had been sitting on. The quick-witted girl had, at the last possible moment, blinked out of the bullet’s path.

“Sniper!” Pharah crashed into Mercy, throwing her behind a large support column for cover before Mercy even had a clear idea of where the shot had come from. Pharah held a protective arm over her as another bullet splintered into the pillar, sending cascades of rubble and plaster raining down on them.

Above, there was the crisp sound of breaking glass and half a dozen small, dark shapes started rappelling down towards the floor. Mercy barely had time to recover from the shock of sudden combat, before the pillar they were using for cover came under fire. Machine gun bullets rained into it, pecking at its borders, fraying up its fine, dusty paint.

Pharah shot off a handful of blind shots in the hopes of stalling them slightly. The bullet rain rose and she pulled her arm back.

“It’s an ambush!” Reinhardt cried. He, Torbjörn and Winston had made it to the small hallway through which they had entered. Tracer was nowhere to be seen.

Pharah didn’t say anything. Her teeth were clenched and she was pressed compromisingly close to Mercy as to make the most use of the pillar’s cover.

“Winston!” Pharah shouted over the roar of gunfire. “We need a way out!”

The moment of silence from the scientist stretched into an eternity as the soldiers’ advance grew closer. Mirrored in some glass panes on a nearby wall, Mercy could now clearly see the Talon insignia patched on their shoulders.

“Back wall!” he shouted back. “There’s a door. Red handles, you see it?”

Pharah turned, eyes darting across the back of the room. Mercy followed her gaze until she found the door Winston was talking about. It was only about thirty feet away. In this situation, it might as well have been a mile.

“We need-” Pharah let out a soft cry, as a bullet grazed her arm. “We need a distraction.”

_“Did someone say distraction!?”_

The sudden sound of laughing, followed by the distinct zap of her accelerator left little to the imagination as to what was happening. Tracer’s machine pistols sang in rapid verse as the small woman darted around the cafeteria, never staying more than a second in any particular location. She would leap into the air, letting her chronal accelerator carry her higher and then switch directions inflight to get out of a soldier’s line of fire.

“You looking tired, luvs. Am I too fast for ya?” She blinked forward again, shooting off half a clip, before spinning to the side out of harm’s way.

“We have to go.” Pharah pulled at Mercy with one hand, holding her gun with the other. She didn’t shoot, as that would only serve to remind the now panicking soldiers that Tracer was just one of many targets still in the cafeteria.

Mercy heard Winston, Reinhardt and Torbjörn exit the hallway and start running across the space towards the back doors. They made it there nearly at the same time, crashing through the doors as a unit. Barely were they through before Reinhardt grabbed a large, rusty cabinet and dragged it in front of the doors, blocking it completely.

“We’re leaving her?” Pharah said. Her voice had lost some of its commanding edge. Mercy noticed a tint of panic in her dark eyes.

“She’s gotten out of tougher scrapes,” Torbjörn said, but the worry was obvious in his voice.

“She’ll hold them until we get to the aircraft,” Winston said decisively. “We’re changing the plan, it’s too risky for you now. I’ll fly you to the base tonight.”

Pharah glared at him. There was blood running down her arm, the gun in her hand was shaking.

Mercy stepped in front of the younger woman, forcing her to look away from the scientist. She rested a gentle hand on Pharah’s arm. “We won’t leave her behind.”

That was a lie and Mercy knew it. Tracer was one of the most unique people she had ever met, not just because of her abilities but because of what she was willing to do for those around her. How many times had she willingly thrown herself into danger, just so those around her could make it to safety?

But that willingness came with a price. She remembered the lost fights where Tracer had covered them as they retreated. Where the young woman, so full of joy and bravery, had disappeared from Mercy’s sight and she didn’t know whether or not she’d ever see her again.

They had to leave her. Tracer had said it herself, she was a distraction. One that they had to take advantage of.

Pharah nodded. Mercy couldn’t tell if she believed her words of not, but it didn’t matter. Pharah was slipping back into the role of soldier. Her eyes grew hard as she walked ahead of the column, gun pointed towards the ground. As she went, she left a small trail of blood on the floor.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promised smut, I will deliver smut. Happening next chapter (might take a little bit longer to write than the usual ~2 days)


	4. Contact

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things I've learned since the last chapter:
> 
> I really suck at Spanish.

_Oh, how she’d missed this._

“You know; it’d just be easier if you gave up now. You’re gonna exhaust yourselves trying to catch up!” Tracer’s quippy remarks rolled off her tongue, inflicting both panic and irritation on the six Talon soldiers who were so desperately trying to shoot her down.

So far, they had only come close to hitting her when one of the men had started spinning his rifle wildly, nearly shooting his own allies in the process. Otherwise, her speed made her too hard of a target to hit.

Tracer kept moving; blinking, zapping, running. She was never still, never hesitating. A blue flash of energy zipping from table to table under the choir of popping gunfire.

“Come on, gents,” she said, appearing next to a soldier, whipping the butt of her pistol into his nose. “I’m barely even winded! At least give me a challenge.” 

The man sputtered, blood running from his now broken nose. He muttered something that was too stuffy to clearly understand, but Tracer wouldn’t have heard him anyway. She was on the next man, pouncing him from behind so he fell inelegantly forward, knocking his chin into the edge of a table.

She blinked backwards out of his range, before he could get to his feet. Behind her, she saw Mercy and Pharah breaking their cover, followed quickly by Reinhardt, Torbjörn and Winston who did the same from the hallway. They were running with purpose, a purpose she understood.

 _Protect them_ , a voice sang in her head. _You are a ghost out here. They can’t hit you._

“Damn right, they can’t hit me.” She broke forward in a rapid series of blinks, forcing the Talon forces to turn away from the running agents to face her, or be shot in their now exposed backs.

“Not really the top brass, are you?” Her pistols fired rapidly, storms of bullets hailing over her opponents from more directions than they could counter. Mostly, they shot blind, hoping to hit her by accident, but Tracer knew better than to come near them when they panicked. She darted around the cafeteria with a speed that she only used when in heated battle, until she heard the door at the end of the room shut with a bang. They were out. Her friends were safe.

She dashed into a near vertical jump, transporting herself chaotically through the room, leaving the Talon agents spinning in circles looking for her.

“It was fun, lads! Do try to actually hit me next time.” And she was gone, blinking rapidly down the hallway that she and Mercy had entered the cafeteria through.

Tracer grinned, not fighting the bright laugh bubbling in her chest. Her speed was unreal, her reflexes quicker than lightning. In these many months since Overwatch disbanded there had been no need for her abilities, not on the scale that she had just performed. She felt like a racehorse who had been confined to a stall with little room to move, who was now suddenly given free reins.

Her laugh exploded as she ran from the building, the tiredness she had invoked in the soldiers beginning to set in her own chest, but she pushed it back, feeling the familiar adrenaline blast through her as if it was a drug and she an addict.  

She reached a small, abandoned house half a mile from the office building where they had had their brief meeting, before she called up Winston. The scientist had given her a small communicator with a connected earpiece to replace her cell phone. They had used the same back when Overwatch was still operating legally. It was easy familiarity to call him up.

“Winston, it’s me. Are you there?” There was a moment of static radio silence. “Winston, if you’re there, please reply.”

 _“We’re here. You’re coming through loud and clear.”_ Tracer let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. _“Are you safe?”_

“Safe?” She laughed, adrenaline still roaring through her veins. “I’m bloody great! Did all of you get out okay?”

_“Yes. A few bruises, but nothing major. I got everyone on the craft just fine. I’m flying them out.”_

“You’re _flying_? And you ask if I’m safe?” Tracer grinned. “Now I’ve heard everything.”

Winston chuckled through the radio. _“Good to know that you have so little faith in me. We’ve changed the plan. Give me your position, we’ll come get you.”_

“Hang on.” Tracer leaned out looking for some kind of indicator to her location. There was a large oak tree growing near the building that age or some other factor of nature had made coil to one side in the mockery of a hand. It was the only tree of its kind near here. She wouldn’t find a better marker.

“Alright, I’m holed up in a house not far from the meeting place. There’s an old oak outside, shaped kind of like a hand.”

 _“You’re breaking up, repeat.”_ Winston’s voice was scratchy from static.

“Small house, about half a mile from the office building. Old oak outside acting as marker.”

She waited. No reply.

“Winston? Winston, can you hear me?”

Silence.

“Damn it!” She fiddled with the ear piece, hoping that her unknowing fingers would accidentally make the thing work.

 _Think, Lena. Think._ She couldn’t stay here now. In the old days they would have decided on both secondary and tertiary meeting places prior to any engagement in case of situations just like this one, ensuring that a compromised agent could fall back to a secure location, awaiting pickup. This wasn’t the old days. She had nowhere to go.

Tracer shook the rising fear from her head, the fear that no one would return for her. She needed a plan, she needed to move. It was only a matter of time before the Talon soldiers would start sweeping the area. Winston was smart, he wouldn’t stay here not knowing where she was. That would put everyone in danger.

She would have to make contact with him at another time, _somehow_. She tapped at the earpiece again, hoping that dumb luck might be enough to make the thing work again, but it remained silent. Tracer readied herself for a long run, drawing from the power of the accelerator in her chest, and…

Her accelerator didn’t respond.

Tracer looked down at the piece of technology in her chest. It was still shedding light, casting faint shadows on the walls around her. She felt the constant hum of its energy trembling against her skin. But yet, it didn’t respond.

There followed a series of rapid emotions. First, confusion. She knocked it gingerly, like she’d done the communicator, trying to get it to obey her command.

Then, dark realization followed by a sense of deep terror when she remembered the circumstances which had stopped her accelerator from working the last time.

And lastly - punctuated by a low laugh from somewhere in the darkness - came hot, fiery anger.

Tracer spun with a snarl, drawing her pistols and charging into the shadows where she’d heard the sound. She was slightly surprised when her shoulder collided with something solid, even though her eyes saw nothing at all.

She tried grabbing it, but her usual speed was not with her and she felt clumsy as she reached forward, grasping only air.

“Show yourself, you coward!”

The laugh again. _That bloody, teasing laugh_. It made Tracer’s skin crawl.

Sudden pain shot through Tracer’s vision as something hard whipped against the back of her head. She fell forwards, her grip on her pistols slacking ever so slightly, but it was enough. A kick and one of them went skidding across the floor. The other was snatched from her hand and tossed aside, out of her reach.

 _“¿Me extrañaste?”_ a familiar voice purred. She sounded so amused that the anger Tracer felt burn in her chest exploded into rage.

Tracer spun, aiming to kick or punch or just somehow _strike_ Sombra, who had now materialized fully behind her. Sombra saw it coming, dodging out of the way and returning Tracer’s attack with light kick to her backside that tipped her balance, making her fall flat on her face. A sharp, metallic taste shot into her mouth and she groaned. She’d bitten her lip on impact. Standing, she turned towards the woman, anger and fear making her usual happy self look frightening. She spat blood on the floor.

“No, actually. I haven’t missed you, _Hedgie_.” She looked the woman up and down. Her outfit was pretty much unchanged from when Tracer had first seen her in that warehouse. Only, now it seemed lighter. More of her skin was visible, probably to combat the warmer climate. Tracer scoffed, trying to copy the mocking way Sombra did it. “Reckon I shouldn’t be surprised that your fashion sense is still shit. You look like an eggplant going to a rave.”

 _Terrible line_ , she thought.

Sombra pouted her lips in mock sadness.

“You break my heart, _mija_.” Sombra patted her machine pistol casually, as if she’d just remembered that she had it. Tracer clenched her teeth. The warning was obvious. “My feelings are hurt.”

“Why are you here?” Tracer’s voice had lost whatever good humour it had left. Now it was just cold.

“I am protecting my investment. Tell me, what am I supposed to think when my new associate decides to get together with her old friends, and doesn’t think to introduce me?”

“You keep them out of this, you--”

Tracer froze. Her accelerator was dimming again and she cursed.

“I don’t think you’ve quite understood our arrangement, Lena.” Sombra started moving towards Tracer. She was within arm’s reach of her now, edging ever closer. Tracer took a step back.

“As far as I recall, you skipped out on me before we had a chance to specify anything.” Tracer’s voice was no more than a growl. “I still don’t know what the hell you want from me.”

“Poor Lena.” She was so close now. _Why was she getting this close?_ “It’s not nice, is it? Not being the smartest person in the room.”

 Now it was Tracer’s turn to laugh. She thought of Winston’s furrowed face, of Mercy’s kind smile. “You clearly don’t know anything about the people I hang around with.”

“You’re right. I don’t.”

There was a _tap_ as Tracer’s back hit the wall. She had been backing away, while Sombra had advanced. She hadn’t even noticed that she’d run out of space to retreat.

Before Tracer could do anything to move away, Sombra had placed a hand on the wall, right next to Tracer’s head. Her body was close enough that they were almost touching. _Was this some kind of weird threat?_

 “There is something I require of you, _mija_. Something that only very few people can give me.”

Tracer wanted to shove her away. She wanted to see that mocking, _teasing_ grin die on the woman’s lips. But then, why couldn’t she move?

“What are you doing to me?”

Sombra’s smile was bright in the dark room. It made Tracer want to look away, but she forced herself not to.

“Can’t have you running off, can we?” She tapped at the dim accelerator in Tracer’s chest. “Funny, this thing. Was it that monkey of yours who invented it? It must have been. Who else would meddle with this kind of technology?”

“I can’t move.”

“Aww,” Sombra smiled. “Now, that is just a poor excuse, blaming me. There is much I can do, little Lena. I can control your time; rewind it, move it at my leisure. I can access computer networks with security systems worth millions, just with a simple touch.” As if to strengthen her point, she ran one of her violet claws along Tracer’s cheek. “But I can’t control what the earth gave you.”

“Liar.”

“Have I lied to you yet?” She leaned in closer, her face now only inches from Tracer’s. “It would not be in my best interest. What power would I have over you then? You might decide to do something stupid, if you thought you couldn’t trust me.”

“I don’t trust you.” Tracer was surprised at how sharp her voice was, how cruel. But yet, she didn’t move. Sombra was not touching her, not holding her against her will, if you looked past the control she had of the accelerator.

“How sad you make me, _mija_.” She pushed herself closer now, calmly resting her free hand on Tracer’s hip. The smile was still there, ever present, ever _fucking_ teasing. As if the world was a poker game and she was sitting with all the aces. Probably hidden somewhere in her fluorescent sleeves.

Sombra drew closer. Her movement was slow, so slow in fact, that Tracer didn’t notice she was getting nearer until she could feel the warm air of Sombra’s breath against her skin. She smelled of cigarette smoke. Not from her mouth, but from her clothes. Like a cloud, engulfing her in dark aroma.

“You don’t want to make me sad, do you?” Her lips were a finger’s width from Tracer’s, not quite touching. All Tracer would have to do was lean forward and they would be kissing.

_Kissing?!_

Tracer turned her head away to dismiss Sombra’s advances, but the disconnection between the two of them was brief. Sombra grabbed Tracer’s chin, forcing her to look back at the older woman standing so near her that they were sharing oxygen.

“What do I have to do,” Her tongue shot out, grazing the bleeding cut on Tracer’s lip. It came away red. “to show you that I don’t want to hurt you?”

Tracer wanted to answer, but her throat was nothing but knots. Her mouth opened, closed, then opened again. No sound came out.

Sombra’s eyes stayed on Tracer’s as she placed a firm hand on her shoulder, pushing the little brunette against the wall. Before, Tracer had technically been free to move away if she had wanted to, but Sombra’s hands on her shoulder and chin made any sudden movement difficult. Not that sudden movement was going to happen. Tracer was still as a statue under Sombra’s touch.

“Just tell me, _mija_.” She unclasped one of her luminous gloves, pulling it off to reveal light brown skin beneath it. Her nails were smooth and short, nothing like the shining claws that she’d dragged alongside Tracer’s cheekbone.

Sombra caressed Tracer’s hurt lip with her gloveless hand, then continued down to touch the young agent’s collarbone. Tracer hissed air in through her teeth as it came to a rest on her waist, slowly working its way beneath her shirt. Her fingers were cool against her warm skin.

“Stop me.” Sombra had not taken her eyes off Tracer’s. Her grin was wider than ever and now there was challenge in it. She was _daring_ her to pull away. Daring her to curse at her and run. But Tracer still didn’t move.

It wasn’t that she’d never tried this sort of thing before. While her life as an Overwatch agent hadn’t allowed her much time for romance, she wouldn’t call herself inexperienced. But this was different. She _hated_ Sombra, detested the ease with which she had taken control over Tracer’s body. She _hated_ how powerless she felt next to her, how stupid and young and silly.

And yet, right now, all she wanted was to have Sombra’s hand go lower than where it was currently nesting, fingers softly caressing Tracer’s stomach, thumb running along the inside of her waistband.

Sombra apparently read the longing on her face, even hidden behind the anger and hatred, because she unbuttoned Tracer’s jeans and let her hand slip down the front of Tracer’s sex.

The boy shorts Tracer was wearing offered little protection from Sombra’s fingers. They drew down, finding where her underwear had gotten slick and wet from arousal. Tracer’s face turned scarlet. Sombra’s laugh was a low rumble deep in her chest.

“Well,” She drew even closer, her mouth hovering near Tracer’s, “I don’t think you actually _want_ me to stop.”

Sombra’s fingers ran up Tracer’s underwear so slowly that the young woman felt like screaming. Every touch of skin on skin, however brief, sent fire through her body. Sombra drew her hand down again. Her fingers were still exploring, touching Tracer through her shorts. The few instances where she touched the skin of Tracer’s thighs seemed accidental, but it didn’t lessen their effect.

Tracer whined under the light, _slow_ touch. Sombra stopped moving her hand, fingers pulling at the shorts’ elastic.

“Little Lena.” Hate and arousal turned to fire in Tracer’s chest as Sombra spoke. She was going to say something crude, but Sombra suddenly drove her thumb downwards, flicking hard at Tracer’s clit. Tracer moaned louder than she’d wanted to, feeling a wave of confusing pleasure run through her body. Sombra bared her teeth. “You like this.”

“Yes...” It wasn’t meant as an answer, but more as a direct response to Sombra’s touch. The strange woman repeated the treatment of Tracer’s most sensitive area, sending ripples of sudden bliss through her, making her thighs quiver. _Her mouth was so close_.

Sombra turned her hand, allowing her thumb to rest on Tracer’s clit, while her other fingers caressed the area beneath it. She drove back and forth along Tracer’s lips, taking the girl’s sudden moans as confirmation to go further. Faster.

“Do you want me to continue?”

Her thumb started rotating at her question, and Tracer found herself unable to answer. It circled her clit, putting light pressure on it. Each round it made sent more waves of perplexing, hot pleasure through Tracer’s body.

Sombra halted her gentle caressing, pushing down on Tracer’s clit with sudden firmness. Pain and ecstasy made Tracer give out a loud cry of desire that rolled from somewhere deep within her. Sombra was still smiling.

“I asked you something, _mija_.”

She began her assault again, her thumb circling faster now, pressing down harder. Sombra’s touch was ruthless in its continuation. It didn’t stop, it didn’t halt. Pain and exhaustion made Tracer’s knees tremor, but she didn’t fall. Sombra was fully pushed against her now, her hand moving in tandem with Tracer’s now shuddering hips.

“Yes.” Tracer’s voice was barely there, a whisper born of forbidden desire. Sombra’s breath was sweet against her neck. Sweet and gentle, the complete opposite of her still circling, still pressuring fingers.

“I can’t hear you.”

Sombra moved her hand, and for a short moment Tracer felt as if she’d been robbed of something which she couldn’t exactly explain. Then Sombra’s fingers thrust inside of her, curling towards the soft, wanting spot deep within her cunt.

Tracer let out a loud moan on a breath that shuddered. Her hips started grinding against Sombra’s hand, finding a rhythm that Sombra was quick to follow. Her thumb once again went to Tracer’s clit, circling but not touching it this time. Her movements seemed almost random, suddenly flicking at Tracer’s exposed centre, leaving the woman in tatters whenever she did. When her adept fingers didn’t touch, she just circled the space around her erect clit, as if her hand was a shark slowly closing on its prey.

“I wa-- _ahh!_ ” Tracer was cut short, when Sombra once again put pressure on her jewel, turning her moans into rapid cries. Her voice would betray her with every breath, growing louder and louder as Sombra’s fingers explored her depths in a way she hadn’t experienced in a long time.

“Come for me.” Sombra’s voice was gruff against Tracer’s neck. The woman opened her mouth, sinking her teeth into her lover’s skin. Tracer’s yelp from the pain turned into a loud cry of pleasure, and she dug her nails into Sombra’s hips just to keep herself standing. “Come for me, Lena. I want to feel you when it happens.”

“ _Yes!_ ” Tracer cried, as the combination of Sombra’s thrusting fingers, the ever teasing circulation on her clit and her own confused desire made her fall apart in Sombra’s arms. Her muscles tightened around Sombra’s fingers, and Tracer grinded against her hand in quick bursts as the orgasm rolled through her in trembling waves. Each movement she made was a spasm as her body convulsed in pleasure, twitching against Sombra’s fingers that had now grown as sweet as her breathing, easing her through her climax.

As Tracer came down from the high that Sombra’s touch had given her, she found herself leaning against the woman. Her face was resting on her shoulder, her hands found support on her hips.

Sombra scoffed, the mocking tone back in her voice, as she pulled her fingers away. Tracer shivered at the sensation, letting off a small, tired moan.

“Always nice to be appreciated,” Sombra said, as she licked off Tracer’s juices from her fingers, before pulling her glove back on. “Here I was thinking that you didn’t like me.”

“I--” Now Tracer was the one smiling. “I don’t like you.”

“I suppose there’s good reason for that. But, at least, now I can keep tabs on my little _rayo_. Wouldn’t want you running off on me without telling. Again.”

Tracer’s frowned, the haziness she’d felt from her orgasm clearing away. “What?”

"I doubt you could even find it if you took the entire thing apart. I am very discreet." Sombra was still standing close enough that their lips were barely apart. She ran her fingers against the shell of the accelerator. “I needed to get close to you _somehow_. Might as well have some fun doing it.”

Tracer’s eyes grew wide. Her stiffness from before evaporated and she pushed Sombra in the chest, making her stumble backwards. “What!?”

Sombra chuckled with a satisfied sigh. “I’m a sucker for bad jokes. A trace on Tracer. Now, who would have thought?”

Tracer was still trying to understand exactly what she was hearing. “You… You--!”

“Try using more than one word, _mija_. Though, from what you showed me just now, one is all you need, really.”

The desire she had felt was gone, evaporated like a thin mist as the realization of what had happened turned Tracer from compliant to dangerous. “You put a tracker on me? A _tracker!_ And to hide your plan you decided that your best course of action was to _fuck_ me, so I wouldn’t notice?”

“Worked splendidly, didn’t it?” Sombra laughed and dematerialized, just as Tracer leapt at her, hands balled into fists.

“We’ll see each other soon, I hope!” Sombra’s voice sang in the shadows. “And, please, don’t try to remove it. I will just have to come back and put in a new one. Do try and behave in the meanwhile.”

And she was gone. Just as sudden as she had appeared.

Tracer’s rage seethed in her chest and she almost let out a loud scream of frustration, if she hadn’t remembered that there were still Talon operatives in the area.

_You didn’t think of that when Sombra had her hands all over you…_

She shook the voice from her mind, feeling blood rise to her cheeks. She reckoned that her entire face was mostly like the colour of beet, and, at the very least, full on O’Hara.

Sudden static in her earpiece nearly made her jump. _She’d turned that off too. Of course._

_“Trace… Tracer, please re… lease report. Lena? Answer, goddammit.”_

“I’m here.” She couldn’t quite keep the anger from her voice, but Winston seemed too relieved to notice.

_“We were beginning to worry. Are you alright?”_

She let the question simmer, not knowing how to respond.

_“Lena, are you there?”_

“Yeah. Yeah, sorry. I’m fine.” She was very much _not_ fine. “I had… something I had to deal with, I’m good now. Did you lot make it out?”

_“We are on our way to the base. I’m afraid we can’t turn around for you, it’s too risky. There’s a small craft coming to get you now, it’ll take you home.”_

“Who’s flying?”

_“Athena is.”_

_Thank_ _God,_ she thought.

_“I’m sending coordinates to you now. The craft will be at that spot within the hour.”_

“I won’t be late. Promise.”

_“I know you won’t.”_

Tracer signed off without saying goodbye. The anger was still boiling inside her, and it only magnified when she realized that her jeans were still open wide at her crotch. Turning red again, she zipped up and tried to get herself to look like someone who _hadn’t_ just been fucked by the enemy.

She picked up her pistols from where Sombra had discarded them, before breaking into a sprint. She was aiming for the coordinates Winston had given her. The craft might already be there, waiting to take her home.

_Home._

She smiled briefly at the thought, before anger overtook her again. She quickened her pace, blinking forward rapidly, hoping that with enough speed and distance she could remove herself from… whatever it was that had just happened.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not as long as I feared it would be. The next one, though? Oh, boy.


	5. Wanting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay in posting. Was suffering from the feared and legendary writer's block. Hopefully it's over now.

Winston hadn’t been lying when he said that the base they would use as headquarters was not running optimally. Structurally, it was sound. Thick white walls with few windows, and those that were there were bulletproof. There was more space than Pharah would have thought and despite the worry she felt, she was impressed by the scientist’s efficiency.

But it was an empty shell. The building had no power, beyond a few generators running the security systems and basic lighting around the base. It had no vehicles, no food in its kitchens. No people.

It reminded Pharah so much of the old Overwatch Watchpoints her mother had taken her to, it was eerie. There was a lab, a medbay, a shooting range, a _swimming pool_. But it was as empty and silent as a graveyard. No people walked its halls, no hum from electronics reached her ears.

Winston had provided living quarters in one of the wings, enough so they could each have a private room five times over if they wanted. Pharah looked at the group of tired, confused agents trotting along beside her. Their grim faces.

Winston was optimistic. How disappointed he must be.

“How far along is Lena?” Angela’s voice was steady, but her gaze flickered, mirroring the concern Pharah felt claw in her chest. She had reported back while they were flying, but they had yet to hear if she’d made it out of Sevilla.

“She made it to the dropship.” The gorilla led them inside the facility, casting quick glances around him as he did. “She said she was safe, but that they were on her tail. She can’t come here while she’s compromised.” 

Winston kept his voice even, but the words clearly pained him.

There had been silent tension on the ship as he had been forced to turn the craft away, leaving Tracer behind in the abandoned building. He had barely been out of range before he’d deployed an airship from the cargo; a small, avian craft build specifically for swiftness and stealth. He’d continuously broadcasted over Tracer’s communicator, trying to reestablish contact with her after she had been cut off. All the while, Pharah had seen ghosts in her mind. Dice's contorted face, dusty from ash and dirt. Chipper’s dead eyes. Khalil’s broken body.

Pharah had seen fear in the faces of the people around her. She’d looked at Reinhardt in particular; his strong, usually grinning face… now sunken and pale. He’d never looked old before then, not really. There had always been more strength than weakness in him, no matter how grey his hair turned.

_Mother would be the same age._

“You’re still bleeding.” Mercy’s gentle fingers touching her arm brought Pharah back to the present. She winced in pain as Mercy pulled on her sleeve.

“Winston, is the medbay supplied?” The doctor’s voice was sharp, breathy from their quick walk.

 “Not fully. It has the basics, but little else.”

“Basics will do.” Pharah looked ready to protest, but something hard in Mercy’s face made her stop. She hauled gently at Pharah, turning her down a hallway as if she’d been there a hundred times. Pharah looked back at the others, watching them turn and walk away. She didn’t know where they were going.

 It took the pair less than a minute to find the medbay. It was one of the only rooms in the facility that was fully lit and Pharah narrowed her eyes at the brightness of the room. The hallways were only illuminated by sparse emergency lamps, casting a cold light on the floor and walls. In comparison, the medbay looked as if it was on fire.

“It’s not that serious,” Pharah said, sitting down on a chair while Mercy eased her out of her ruined jacket. The bullet that had grazed her hadn’t cut deep, but her arm was no longer its normal shade of bronze and had instead turned a dark crimson.

“That’s what you said last time,” Mercy said dryly, ruffling through some drawers. “I’m starting to doubt your medical know-how.”

Pharah didn’t laugh, though a part of her wanted to. They had been in this situation only days earlier, Mercy leaning over her, mending her wounds. Kind of funny, in a twisted way. She didn’t say anything for a long moment.

“You said we’d-”

Pharah yelped in pain as Mercy began cutting away her shirt sleeve. The adhesiveness of the blood made threads of fabric stick in the wound. Fresh blood pooled up in scarlet drops.

Mercy cursed softly in German, pressing a piece of clean bandage against Pharah’s arm.

“Keep pressure on this.”

Pharah did as she was told. “Just… Give me a minute. I’ll be fine.”

“Is that your professional opinion?” Mercy sounded nothing like she’d done at the hospital in Cairo. She was cool and sharp, much like the scalpel Pharah saw lying on the table behind her.

“I don’t need your help,” Pharah said, her voice meaner than she’d wanted it to be. She showed teeth in anger and pain. “It’s just a scratch, it didn’t even hit bone. Stop mothering me.”

Mercy looked up at her, heat rising in her cheeks. The doctor’s tousled hair, now gleaming with a little sweat, was frizzy at its edges. It looked a bit like a halo in the medbay’s bright light.

“Your _scratches_ are ruining your wardrobe,” Mercy said, crossing her arms. “Soon you’ll have nothing to wear. Then what will you do?”

Pharah scoffed out a dry laugh. “Yes, what a tragedy it would be. Fareeha Amari caught without any clean clothes.”

She strained against the pain in her arm. There was still a little blood oozing down in a soft steady stream. She was right when she said that it wasn’t too serious. The bleeding would probably stop just fine on its own, if given the time.

“Let me clean it, at least,” Mercy said beckoningly. “You know as well as I the damage a contaminated gunshot wound can do.”

Pharah shot her head towards Mercy. The glare she sent her was positively hateful. “You left her there.”

Mercy looked down at her feet. The heat rising in her face no longer came from anger, but from shame.

“We had no choice,” she tried, but her voice sounded weak. As if she herself thought it was a poor excuse.

“You always have a choice,” Pharah muttered. The acid had gone from her voice somewhat. “This isn’t what I signed up for. You told me that Overwatch was meant for heroes.” She cast a short glance at Mercy, then caught her own eye in the reflection of a glass cabinet. She looked down. “I don’t see any heroes. I see people desperately trying to revive something that’s _dead_. This was a mistake.”

Pharah shook her head, clearing it of some the foul thoughts gnawing on her mind. What was Overwatch trying to be if not heroes? It was what had set them apart from other organizations, their everlasting wish to do good. And heroes didn’t leave people behind. What did they matter if they forgot what they were supposed to be?

Mercy sighed.

“Lena knows what she’s doing. It’s not the first time she’s done this.”

“She’s just a girl.”

“She’s not much younger than you.” Mercy’s voice was dry. 

“She’s a _kid_. It’s like she never learned how be an adult. She was like this even when mother-” Pharah cut herself off, turning away from Mercy. She took a few, long breaths before she spoke again. “What we did was unjustifiable. You don’t leave people behind. No matter what.”

Mercy tilted her head at Pharah, as if seeing her for the first time. She took her in, blue eyes resting on her face, her broad shoulders, her bloody arm. The doctor in her had disappeared for a moment, just as when she’d taken Pharah’s hand in hers all those years ago. She left the agent in her behind for an instant. Now, she was just… her.

_Angela. Confused, thoughtful Angela._

Without saying anything, Mercy fetched a cloth and water. She gestured Pharah to remove the bandage and started washing the blood from her arm. Pharah made no move to stop her.

“She’s always been like that, hasn’t she? Tracer, I mean.”

Mercy pondered the question for a moment. “Lena’s always been brave. Sometimes _too_ brave.”

“Mother used to say that as well,” Pharah said, the shadow of a smile curling on her lips. “She told me once that she’s impossible to catch. And equally impossible to hold down, be it in the field or at home.”

“Lena never did like being still.” Mercy dampened another cloth in alcohol and began to further clean the wound. Her patient didn’t react beyond a slight wince. “We’ll get her home safe.”

“You sound so certain.”

“I am certain. The day Lena Oxton gets bested by some Talon goons is the day _I_ eat Jesse’s disgusting, old hat.”

Pharah couldn’t help but grin. “Don’t be too hard on yourself. Remember, I’ve _seen_ that hat.”

“I don’t know how he stands it. I’m half convinced he’s got a pack of critters living in it at this point. Would explain the smell.”

Pharah laughed, a hearty, deep laugh that made Mercy smile. It was so small, so fine on her face. A tiny dimple appeared on one cheek, making it look a little crooked.

That smile felt as a column somehow. How could anyone not find support in a smile so genuine? How could it not take away the heaviness of fear and guilt?

“We can’t be heroes, Angela. Not doing what we’re doing.” Pharah’s voice was serious once again. “This isn’t the Overwatch I remember seeing when I was a child. This isn’t--” Her voice caught and she looked down at her feet. She didn’t want to cry. She couldn’t be showing weakness now. “It isn’t what she died for.”

“We haven’t been heroes in a long time,” Mercy said as she wrapped clean bandage around Pharah’s arm. “I can’t blame the world for forgetting that it needed heroes, when we started forgetting how to be them. But time will teach us. We will remember, I promise. And we will get Lena back.”

“How do you know?” Pharah looked up at Mercy. There were dark shadows under her eyes still. She was paler than she’d been in Cairo. “How do you know that this-- That _Overwatch_ is the right thing to do?”

“Saving the world was never the solution, Fareeha.” She closed the bandage on Pharah’s arm. “There are plenty who seek to destroy it, and trying to stop them we run the risk at becoming them.”

Mercy smiled tiredly, rubbing her shadowed eyes. “We need people like you. People who remind us what the point of it all is. It’s not easy to understand, it won’t ever be. The world will never be safe from those that will do it harm, because they have and will always exist. But we can help make the world less dangerous.”

Pharah grimaced. “That’s not the first time you’ve said that…”

“You’re right, it’s not,” Mercy chuckled. “I felt the same way you do when I first joined. I was young and idealistic. I was… conflicted. I felt my research started doing more harm than good. I set out to help people, but in the end…”

“What made you change your mind?”

The doctor’s gaze fell on the wadjet tattooed under Pharah’s eye and she smiled. “Your mother did. She told me once that it was never meant to be easy, what we do. We face temptation, injustice, _danger_ for a cause that takes us for granted. People believe being a hero is painless. That we are somehow immune to the world’s cruelty because we are considered to be _good_. It isn’t when the job is hard that you should stop and consider your standing, it’s when it gets easy. Our job should never, _ever_ be easy.”

“How very pessimistic of her,” Pharah muttered.

Mercy just smiled sadly. She stood up, offering a hand to Pharah.

“We’ve dawdled here long enough. Let’s go find the others.”

 

***

“Where is Lena?” Reinhardt asked. He was seated furthest away from Winston, who was pacing back and forth at one end of the conference room. “She should have been back by now.”

Pharah agreed. It had been hours now since they left Sevilla and the young agent had yet to reestablish contact with them.

“She hasn’t responded to my communications.” Winston’s voice was a low rumble in his chest. “According to Athena’s data she is flying aimlessly, but won’t turn on the message receive system in the airship.”

“Are they still chasing her?” Torbjörn asked. The small man was dangling his feet from an office chair in a way that would have been comical had the topic not been so serious. “You said she was compromised.”

“She would have shaken them off by now.” The scientist took off his glasses and sighed. “She’s shut me off; we can’t get in contact with her until she lets us.”

“She must have a good reason,” Mercy said. She was sitting across from Pharah, strumming her fingers against the table. “She wouldn’t just… run away.”

An uncomfortable silence fell over the room. There had been a time where the members of Overwatch trusted each other blindly, but that was before their fall. Before the virus of corruption and betrayal had hit them. None of them had seen Tracer for months, years even. 

Tracer had spent the years since the disbandment running. Maybe she didn’t know how to stop.

“There is nothing we can do,” Winston said decisively. “When she reestablishes contact--”

 _If_ , a dark part of Pharah’s mind whispered.

“--I’ll give her the coordinates to the base and she will join us here. In the meanwhile, we need to go over the plan.”

“The plan that you didn’t have?” Mercy chirped.

“I think I remember saying that I didn’t have _much_ of a plan, dr. Ziegler.”

Mercy smiled playfully. Winston continued.

“As I said earlier; right now we are in no position to make any significant impact. Counting Tracer, we have six confirmed active agents.” He smiled at Pharah. “But we need more. I have sent out feelers to several good candidates who I think will be willing to join our course. If they will not, we will hire mercenaries, of which I also have a few names to call up should that be necessary.”

He turned on a large screen at the back wall of the room, lighting up a few portraits framed with a name and some personal details. Two Pharah recognized, even though one looked older than she remembered and the other looked more… metallic. 

“As you know, we have yet to be able to contact McCree. It seems he has gone into hiding, but it’s likely he’s still in the States.”

“Genji?” Reinhardt asked. Torbjörn scoffed, and Mercy looked down at his mention.

“Same. Last I heard he was somewhere in Asia.”

“Well, that’s awfully specific,” Torbjörn muttered.

Winston typed something on a computer pad, and Genji and McCree’s faces disappeared, leaving four pictures up on the screen. Two males, two females.

“Is that Hana Song?” Reinhardt asked. They all turned as if on cue, staring at the older man who had suddenly gotten a significant red tinge to his face. “What? Brigitte likes her.”

They all kept staring at him. Mercy was visibly trying not to laugh. Reinhardt crossed his enormous arms. He cleared his throat.

“Why-- _hmph_ \-- Why is she on the screen?”

“While some of you here may know her from her movie career,” Winston rested a telling look on Reinhardt, “she is a terrific Mech pilot, one of the best in the world. Beloved by many and hated by none.”

“Well, that’s not true. After Hero of My Storm--” Reinhardt cut himself off when his fellow agents once again turned to face him. All except Mercy who looked away, shoulders shaking lightly.

Winston mouth twitched but he moved on to the next image. “The other is Mei-Ling Zhou. She was stationed at Watchpoint Antartica, but after the cryostasis failure of the facility, she has drawn back to continue her climatic research in China. Neither she nor miss Song have responded to my attempts of contact.”

“And those two?” Pharah asked, gesturing at the two men.

Their images seemed to have been taken during an incarceration process. One of the men was grinning manically, white teeth flashy against sooty skin. The other seemed otherworldly in his enormity. His face filled the entire picture, yet nothing was visible, since he was wearing a crude, leather mask not unlike those seen in bad horror movies. Winston closed the two images down.

“Let’s not dwell on them, shall we?”

Torbjörn made a dismissive gesture. “This is all fine and good, you know? But what do we actually do now? Sit on our asses while Talon walks all over us?”

“We have to be discreet, still,” Winston said.

“ _Discreet_ doesn’t do anything other than make the enemy asserted in their opinion that we aren’t a threat.”

“They have been following Lena for months,” Mercy cut in. “I’m guessing they have been following _us_ too. They tried to steal information on all Overwatch agents, Winston told us so himself. You don’t do that to someone if you don’t consider them a threat.”

Torbjörn grumbled into his beard.

“We can’t do what we used to do. We can’t take the fight directly to them and expect to come out on the winning side. That doesn’t mean we can’t do anything.” Winston made another image appear on the screen. A large, blocky building made in all black rock. “This is a flight center positioned in Italy near Venice. Talon is using it to research new flight computers for their aircrafts. At least, they were. They recently had a minor meltdown in their server room, causing a discharge into the ventilation systems. From what I’ve been able to find out, their newest and most powerful prototype is very delicate and is being transported to their Italian headquarters in Rome, since the facility in Venice can no longer contain it without risking harm to the device.”

He pinged up a map of Italy, a red navigation line blinking between the two mentioned cities, indicating the route the transportation would take.

“What are you thinking?” Reinhardt asked, a grin slowly stealing in on his face. Winston’s face mirrored his.

“I’m thinking, we need that prototype more than Talon does.”

 

* * *

 

 

“What happened?!” _Mr._ Krone (he had no proper title) was pacing the room, slowly burning a path into the carpet with his dragging steps. His fingers twitched, as did his eyebrows. They always did that when he was nervous, or, in this case, incredibly pissed off.

“We didn’t expect them to resist so heavily, sir.” The soldier reporting was scarcely more than a trainee. His face had been cleaned of blood, but his broken nose was still enflamed and his voice was stuffy. “We needed more forces on the ground.”

The _pets_ growled at this and Sombra smirked to herself. She knew she shouldn’t tease them too much, and she had no doubt Reaper would force-feed her a shotgun blast straight to the face if he ever heard her nickname for him out loud. Widowmaker on the other hand… now, she was fun to tease.

“Pardon my saying so,” Sombra said. Krone glared at her, eyes slightly wild. She looked over at Widowmaker. “You missed your target, _amiga_.”

“I don’t miss,” the French woman snarled. Her blue cheeks darkened. “I was not told Tracer was ‘ere.”

“You could have assumed as much!” Krone snapped. “That blasted monkey doesn’t go anywhere without his pretty little poster child.”

Reaper growled from his position in the corner. His edges were muddled, dripping into the darkness behind him. Sombra frowned at the eerie sight. She didn’t care much for her ghostlike colleague.

The dark-clad being fitted perfectly into the office’s aesthetic. The room’s murky colors and sharp, shiny edges matched Reaper’s outfit with shocking similarity. It would be rude to say that the room looked like the office of some kind of supervillain, so Sombra stuck to calling it ‘modernly corporate’. But those were almost mutually exclusive.

“I should have been there,” Reaper said, voice low and haunting.

“Yes, you should have,” Krone said. In his frustration, he forgot who he was talking to.

Reaper flew towards him, a cloud of black smoke centered by that uncanny, white mask. His movement made the young soldier jump backwards, and when he materialized in front of Krone the business man looked shaken and scared.

Krone was a money man. He understood transactions, planning. _Not_ leadership. Placing him in charge of the Spanish headquarters was one of Talons many mistakes.

“You _would_ have been there,” Krone corrected himself, “had I not demanded that you be elsewhere. Likewise for you, Sombra.”

“ _Gracias_.” Krone didn’t know that she had been present in Sevilla, no one did. That was what had made it worth the while.

She was content at being in Talon’s pocket, at least _seeming_ to be in Talon’s pocket. So far, the only people who might know about her fleeting allegiance had every reason to keep their mouths shut. She preferred that it stayed that way.

Krone remained silent. Reaper hadn’t moved.

“You know what I want.”

Krone failed to look fearless, but it was amusing to see him try. Sombra couldn’t really blame him though. Reaper made quite the imposing figure when he wanted to. And when he didn’t want to.

“Yes, you made your demands for joining quite clear. But now that we’ve let the hens out of the pen there’s no telling if we’ll get them back inside.”

Reaper took another step towards Krone.

“I want _her._ ” His voice was loud and whispering at the same time. The soldier backed away even further. He had already reached the door.

“You’re dismissed,” Sombra trilled at him. “Your services are no longer required.”

The soldier didn’t take the time to think about the duality of that statement, before he nodded briskly and fled the room. At the other end of the office, Reaper and Krone were still standing mere inches from each other.

“You’ll get _her_ when the time is right,” Krone snarled, regaining some of his lost composure. “I’ve been talking with Mrs. Asti. We think we will be able to bait them out.”

Sombra raised an eyebrow. This was the first she’d heard of this. She should really have Krone’s phone bugged.

“How are you thinking?” Sombra asked, hiding her peaked interest by drearily examining her glowing nails.

“A transport from Venice to Rome. We think it can draw them out of hiding.”

“They will be careful,” she said. Her voice was singsongy. She knew Krone hated that.

“They won’t have a choice,” he snarled. “Not with what the convoy is carrying.”

“And what is it carrying?” Reaper growled.

“It will appear to move an advanced flight navigation system that the lab in Venice have been working on. In reality, it will be nothing more than wires and screws in fancy packaging.”

“An ambush?” Widowmaker uncurled herself from the chair she’d been sitting in. Sombra always thought that the woman seemed stuck between moving like a cat or a snake. Her skintight suit did nothing to go against either comparison.

“An ambush,” Krone confirmed. He was still looking up at Reaper. “You’ll get your prize in time. Just remember the deal that you made when you joined us.”

“I’ll remember.” He started fading again, bulky shoulders evaporating into mist. “I will always remember.”

Sombra rolled her eyes. There was too much footsy going on between the two of them, neither was willing to completely go against the other. Reaper was volatile at his best, and Krone was a coward who’d thought himself fit to swim with sharks. It spelt eventual disaster.

But the ambush… The ambush she hadn’t seen coming. Talon must be as desperate for information as she was. Either that, or Overwatch was a more powerful player in this game than she'd initially thought. How to play this one out? She thought a moment, possibilities racing through her mind.

Then she grinned, twirling a lock of purple hair between her fingers. _Oh, this was going to be fun._

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some things of note:  
> \- Krone is manager of the Spanish Talon HQ  
> \- Asti is manager of the Italian Talon HQ  
> \- My Spanish sucks  
> \- Next chapter is coming soon  
> \- Thanks for reading


	6. Vision

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am trying for longer chapters since it gives me more control when writing. Unfortunately, it also makes posting slower.  
> Bare with me.

How could the plan have gone so wrong so quickly?

Their strategy had seemed to work impeccably at first. According to Winston’s data, the convoy wouldn’t leave for another day so they had plenty of time to prepare for the attack. Winston had even, somehow, transported their gear to the new base; including Pharah’s Raptora suit and Reinhardt’s bulky armor. And with it came the squealing, little mechanic that Reinhardt had grown so fond off.

Brigitte was of sturdy frame and build, arms taut from working an anvil hammer several hours a day. Her face was freckled and bright, but these features were always hidden beneath a layer of sweaty oil grease.

Mercy had never approved of the affiliation between the two. Brigitte idolized Reinhardt to a point that the young woman would do anything for him. But the doctor couldn’t hide a smile as Reinhardt embraced the girl as he would a daughter, laughing relief into her dark hair.

Brigitte hadn’t wanted to join them on their mission. That had been the one good thing in all this horror.

When the slow moving convoy had first appeared in the distance they had been ready for it. They had deployed fake cars onto the highway, causing a “crash” in one of the lanes. No one was hurt, but the traffic had slowed to a snail’s pace, catching the transport truck in its center. From there, it should have been easy. A few threats, no shots fired. No one needed to get hurt.

It had been Pharah who had spotted the danger first. Her loss in Cairo had left her more hawk-eyed and suspicious than ever, but so far it hadn’t been unwarranted. She’d seen the passengers in the neighboring cars shift as the five Overwatch agents descended on the highway. Mercy had assumed that they had just craned out to look at the accident, but Pharah had seen what their movements really were. Concealed weapons being drawn.

“Reinhardt, barrier!” She’d thrown herself behind the older man, who upon Pharah’s call immediately activated his shield generator. He steadied himself, preparing for the force of bullets that would pelt heavy against his defense.

It had come not just as a rain, but a storm. All at once, from every angle. Gunfire cut through the air, slicing the dull silence into pieces. All five of them had fallen back. This was a fight they weren’t prepared for and they had given up the high ground when they dropped down from the overpass they had been hiding by. And the enemy had them outnumbered four to one.

They had thought this was going to be easy. The reality was far from it.

“What is this?” Mercy yelled over the shower of bullets cascading against Reinhardt’s shield. “Winston, you said they wouldn’t know!”

“Evidently, I was wrong.” Winston ducked as a projectile whisked over his head. Behind them, Pharah and Torbjörn were returning fire. Or rather, trying to fire. Pharah was hovering slightly off the ground, firing rockets into the earth on the side of the highway, making a few if the soldiers duck into cover.

She couldn’t fire at the attackers. While plenty of the cars they had thought to be civilian had clearly turned out to be Talon assailants, there were still plenty of vehicles that were just that; civilian.

A few yards away, Mercy could see a man crawling and ducking between the cars, trying to get out of the line of fire. Another man, a young man, was following him, clutching his bleeding shoulder. In a blue car, Mercy could see a woman curled into an awkward ball over something that looked like a baby’s seat. 

She tightened her grip around her staff, feeling its energy whirr through her fingers. She couldn’t help them. It would mean abandoning the safety of Reinhardt’s shield, risking the wild gunfire that was raining over them. Going to help would mean her death or capture, but even so the choice pained her.

 Instead, she drew the small pistol she carried on her hip and began firing at the Talon soldiers.

“We need to fall back!” Torbjörn said, as he punched in a code on a small controller. The turret he’d set up on the overpass earlier came to life, targeting every person carrying a Talon insignia, which wasn’t that many. Their unexpected backup was dressed in plain clothing, bulky from hidden weapons and bulletproof vests, but bearing no insignia.

Mercy’s pistol found a target and he fell. Torbjörn joined her firing and got another one. All the while, they were backing further and further away from the truck they had targeted.

“Can’t hold forever,” Reinhardt said. His voice was low and rumbling. Mercy noticed his knees were shaking.

“Winston!” she shouted. The scientist seemed completely dumbfounded in the chaos. He blinked at her. Then he opened up the communicator on his arm.

“Athena, fire up the engines, we’re falling back. We need air support.”

Mercy couldn’t hear Athena’s response, as in that moment a rocket boomed into Reinhardt’s shield, shattering its blue light like glass. Reinhardt’s arm twisted horribly from the force, bending in a position that was far from natural. He staggered backwards, already turning away from the soldiers when they opened fire again.

“Run!” His voice was scratchy from inside his helmet. Mercy couldn’t see his face, couldn’t see the pain in his features, but she didn’t need to. It was present in his body, in his quivering voice.

As they hesitated, Winston leapt forward, dropping down his barrier projector around them. Reinhardt was crawling now, one arm tucked against his chest. He was leaving a trail of blood behind him on the highway.

“Lie still,” Mercy instructed, holstering her pistol. The power in her staff leapt at her, hungry to fulfill its purpose. It was already trickling through her body, lining the inlays of her suit like water in a pipe system.

She had become so used to the Caduceus staff’s effects that she hardly noticed it anymore. Pupils dilated, adrenaline rising, the slight burn of skin stitching itself together again.

“You need to go,” Reinhardt said, his voice low in the chaos. Pharah’s rockets flew more rapid now, blasting holes into the ground. Mercy could see her clenched jaw beneath the Raptora helmet.

Then… everything seemed to slow down. There was a thump in the attacking fire. A sudden heartbeat. A distinct _boom… boom… boom_. Heavy and dark among the light pelting of the assault rifles. Mercy felt her heart grow cold.

She peaked out from the car they used for cover to confirm her suspicion and felt a wave of horrified dread wash over her. A man - no, a _ghost_ , was slowly walking towards them. His black shotguns fired in patient sequence, slow and calculated. They wouldn’t hit much at this range, but he knew that. He knew that they knew that. _He wanted them to know he was here._

“Reaper,” Mercy whispered beneath her breath. She turned towards the others. Winston’s barrier couldn’t hold for much longer, and Mercy’s staff had brought Reinhardt to such a state that he could stand and walk. “Reaper is here.”

“What do you mean Reap-- _argh!_ ” Reinhardt’s words turned into a scream when one of Reaper’s shots struck him hard in the shoulder. Blood and pieces of iron came pouring from it, clinking and dripping on the ground. Mercy turned to look at the ghostly apparition of a man.

He was closer now. So close she could see the details in his bone-white mask. Wisps of smoke curled around him whenever one of their bullets struck. His walk was slow, determined and deadly graceful. An apex predator who knew his prey had nowhere to run.

Winston opened his communicator.

“Athena, where is the goddamn air--”

A _whoosh_ sounded as three small drones whistled over their heads. They had the shape a hunting bird would have; sharp, pointed and built for speed. Their grey, metal shells glinted in the Italian sunlight.

 Once they were past the squad of Overwatch agents they released their cargo with a smooth _pop,_ each dropping a little, grey sphere. They fell softly, hitting the earth with barely a sound. For a long, long moment… nothing happened.

The second stretched into an eternity and Mercy’s Caduceus enhanced senses seemed to take it all in with equal importance. Reinhardt supporting himself on Winston, who was trying to get the shield generator on Reinhardt’s arm to work. Torbjörn backing away, firing blindly at nothing and no one. Pharah’s war cries.

Then a fizz.

A crash.

Screaming.

Reality came back overwhelmingly quickly, almost knocking Mercy off her feet. Behind them, their ship, now controlled by Athena, had landed on an abandoned car, crushing it beneath its weight. Torbjörn was the one closest and was beginning to make his way towards it, when mist engulfed Mercy from all sides.

Tendrils of grey bound around her like rope, laboring her breathing and made tears jump up in her eyes. One of the grey deployable spheres from the drones had landed too close to them. They had dropped tear gas.

She coughed, staggering forward, but sounds and sight had no substance and she lost her orientation immediately. She whirled, punching at the haze as if force would will it to part. Somewhere, she thought she heard her name being called, but she didn’t know from where. She didn’t know from _who._

Her teary eyes searched the grey world around her, looking for _something_ that she could latch onto. Something firm and real. Something that wasn’t this fog, winding at her throat like claws.

A dark shape appeared before her, moving slowly forward. Its arms were lowered to its sides, head turning slowly as if searching for something.

Mercy was about to call out when she blinked tears from her eyes, and the world slid back into clearer vision. The brief relief she’d felt, dissipated when she recognized the figure. Bulky shoulders. Curled, metallic claws on his gloves. A boney, dead face.

Reaper looked at her. Surprisingly, he didn’t raise his guns at her. He just stared, as if the mere sight of his prey was enough to still the hunger inside his predator’s mind.

Mercy had never been one to panic easily. As a medic, she’d seen horrors so awful to make most people crack under the pressure. But not her. She had always prevailed. Found strength where others found hopelessness.

She pulled her pistol and fired a handful of shots at Reaper. He didn’t move, didn’t even _flinch_. The bullets just went right through him, as if he was actually a ghost.

“Dr. Ziegler...”

She had never heard him speak. Never heard him utter a word. Not like… _this_. His voice made a chill run down her spine.

He began walking forwards. His guns were still lowered to the ground, but his stride carried purpose. There was no pity to be found in his looming footsteps. No kindness to be seen.

“I’m sorry.” The words came out without her wanting to. The gun in her hand shook.

_This specter of a man… God… What have I done?_

“I’m so sorry…”

He was still walking towards her. The black hollows of his mask carried no emotion, and they were fixed on Mercy’s face, red-streaked from the tear gas.

There was nothing she could do. The gas still hung like a fog around her, swallowing all sounds and sights she might have used to pinpoint an escape. Even if she wasn’t half blind from it, she couldn’t run. Reaper was armed. He could kill her. She couldn’t even harm him.

She didn’t realize she had backed away until her wings hit the side of an empty car. Its metal was hard against the Valkyrie suit. The energy from her staff buzzed pleasantly through her, absently healing small bruises she’d sustained in the battle.

She didn’t want it to end like this. Not alone along a dusty, Italian highway. Not executed for a wrong choice she’d made. She didn’t want to die. She _didn’t_ want to die. But fighting was pointless.

Sighing, Mercy let go of her pistol, letting it slide to the ground. Her staff she kept, lifting it to her chest, feeling its familiar weight in her hands. Its smooth edges along her fingers. She closed her eyes. She waited.

“Get away from her!”

Mercy’s eyes shot up as a mighty gust of wind surged in, blowing away the gas and knocking Reaper to the side. He crashed into a truck, leaving behind a dent in the abandoned vehicle.

Reaper reacted faster than Mercy did, quickly getting to his feet and firing two shots into the air before another blast knocked him further away. Mercy looked up.

Several feet above them hovered Pharah, hand extended to show a small, mounted cannon on her wrist. She didn’t hesitate firing it again, another concussion blast sending Reaper flying several yards away.

“Are you hurt?” Pharah asked, as she landed next to Mercy. The doctor just stared blankly at the flying soldier. Pharah shook her slightly. “Angela?”

The sound of her name worked as a wakeup call. She blinked, finding herself amidst the chaos and painful gas. She didn’t have an answer for the question.

“We need to go,” she muttered instead. Her voice was creaky from inhaling the gas. Every word was painful in her throat.

Pharah didn’t hesitate. She grabbed hold of Mercy’s waist and set off into the sky with a powerful blast from her thrusters. It took them only a second before they’d risen above the cloud of tear gas now dissolving beneath them.

“You found me,” Mercy whispered as they flew towards the aircraft. It had taken off and was now hovering a several feet off the ground. The rush of the wind made it so Pharah didn’t hear her. Mercy clutched the soldier tighter, fresh tears springing in her eyes. “You found me.”

 

* * *

  

A spark flew from the exposed wires in the small ship, nipping the tip of Tracer’s finger.

“Shit!” she cursed, reeling back from the pain. “Jesus, piss, bastard, fucking Christ!”

The ache was already fading. It had been fading before she’d even finished her small rant, but it wasn’t the pain that was making her testy. Pain she could handle. She’d been shot before without making much more than a groan.

Tracer kicked the side of the craft, new pain rolling through her foot. She cursed again, louder and more thoroughly this time. She spent a good, long minute just walking in a tight, fuming, little circle, muttering cruelties under her breath.

It had been almost three days since the meeting in Sevilla, and Tracer was becoming restless. She hadn’t eaten much since then and slept even less, drifting aimlessly around the Spanish countryside. At least she had known what to do. She had known that she should run, _how_ she should run. And she knew she couldn’t contact Winston, not while Sombra’s tracker was still attached somewhere inside her accelerator.

When the aircraft had run out of juice a few hours earlier, she had landed it on a hilly plain a few miles away from any kind of civilisation. Like most modern vehicles of its size, the ship used solar power to function and needed a place to charge. Unfortunately, the aircraft’s solar panels weren’t working, hence why Tracer had spent the better part of the day bent over the side of the sodding hunk of metal, desperately twitching at its wires with her now blackened nails.

She’d taken the time to strip out of her warm sweatshirt, and had removed as much of the accelerator’s protective casing as she could easily do herself. It left a kind of harness significantly smaller than the bulky piece of metal she’d been walking around with the past few days. The lightness of it had been freeing.

“You want to fight me, wire-brain?” she snarled, kicking at the craft again. With her other foot. “You’ll regret it. Oh, you’ll regret it, alright.”

She went to work again, connecting the wires with movements that started confident, but quickly turned clumsy. Like a teen boy trying to open a bra for the first time.

Tracer hadn’t just spent the day mending the faulty wiring systems, she’d also picked at her harness meticulously in search for the tracker Sombra had placed on her. Unfortunately, the slimy woman had been right to be confident. There was no trace of the tracker anywhere on her accelerator.

_‘A trace on Tracer’. Such a stupid joke…_

That was another thing adding to Tracer’s foul mood. Whenever she thought of Sombra she felt rage boil in her chest. Rage from being used, from being _exploited_ , but more than anything she felt shame.

She hadn’t pushed the woman away. She could have, she’d wanted to, but Tracer had let her do those _things_ to her. Things that made her toes curl when she thought about it. She had let Sombra closer than anyone had been in months. The memory of it was enough to make Tracer feel sick. 

There was a distinct _crack_ as one of the wires snapped forward, lashing over Tracer’s bare arm. Added on her already irritable temper, she cried out loudly, punching the aircraft since both her feet still hurt from punishing the metal flying-can earlier. It hurt, but she hit it again anyway.

“You stupid piece of garbage! Just work, will you?”

A light snicker made the hairs on Tracer’s neck stand up. Her shoulders tightened, as if a colony of spiders were suddenly crawling up her spine.

_You have to be fucking kidding me._

Tracer turned, already knowing what would be waiting for her. Sombra was leaning against the front of the craft, inspecting her nails with great interest.

“Not a mechanic, I take it?” she said, eyes still on her purple claws.

Tracer didn’t answer. She couldn’t answer. She feared what the anger in her chest would do to her voice. Her sooty hands balled against her thighs.

“What, don’t want to talk?” Sombra shot her a smile, pushing herself away from the ship. She was moving closer. “I know the conversation we had last time was a bit one-sided, but I didn’t think you’d make it an all-time thing.”

She raised a hand to run along Tracer’s jaw, but Tracer was quick to hit it away. She didn’t break Sombra’s gaze once.

“What do you want?” Her voice was low in her throat. A growl that would have been more fitting coming from a lion than a woman.

Sombra’s brows knitted together slightly. She was still smiling. “I _missed_ you, _mija_.”

“Missed your little toy, you mean,” Tracer snarled. “Don’t you have other people to torment? Babies with candy in need of stealing?”

Sombra made to touch her again, to rest a hand on her hip. Tracer pushed the woman away, making both of them stagger slightly. “Don’t touch me.”

“ _Mija_ , so hurtful! There’s no need to be rude. You just need to…” Sombra coiled her fingers under Tracer’s chin, “… relax.”

Tracer pushed her away again, putting more force behind the shove. Tracer didn’t stagger this time.

“I don’t want to play your games, _Hedgie_.” It thrilled Tracer to see some of the confidence turn to annoyance at the use of the nickname. “Tell me what you want and leave me alone.”

Sombra regarded her for a moment. Her eyebrows were still frowned slightly, making her poised facade look stilted. She crossed her arms.

“You didn’t follow your friends. You’re not at your base.”

“What?” Tracer looked around theatrically. “Have I gotten myself lost in the Spanish wilderness? Whatever shall I do!”

Irritation flared in Sombra’s eyes. “Sarcasm doesn’t suit you, _mija_.”

“You’re one to talk, Shadow, being a mobile comedy club. Tell you what; you can teach me my manners once you remove the _fucking_ tracker from my accelerator and stop following me around like a lost puppy. You’d think I piss bread and honey, the way you’re snapping at my heels.”

Sombra looked confused, but only for the barest moment. She went back to inspecting her nails.

“I had half a thought you were off on a mission of some sort for that scientist gorilla of yours, but that’s clearly not the case.”

“And why is that?” Tracer was taking the bait and she knew it. _Stupid, Lena._

“For one; they wouldn’t have sent you on a mission in a ship whose solar panels you couldn’t reconnect.” She glanced mockingly at the spider web of wires pouring out of the aircraft’s side. “I mean, honestly, Lena. That is just embarrassing.”

Against her will, Tracer felt her cheeks grow hot. She turned back towards the mess of panels, seeing bared cogs and machinery shining in the sun. She could fly anything with an engine. She couldn’t fix them, though.

“Second… I don’t think of you as the sort of person letting her friends walk into an ambush if you knew something about it.”

Tracer turned back towards Sombra. Questions were burning on her lips, but no words escaped them. The woman continued.

“At the very least, you would want to be with them during the assault. The fact that you are here and not with them… and that you are not running around in a fit of panic, clearly shows that you are all alone. No one to talk to. Lonely, little Lena.”

She grinned at Tracer and the glee the agent found in the woman’s face made any semblance of restraint vanish. The hate and the fear boiled into a horribly seething ball of fury.

She flew at Sombra, grabbing her by the shoulder and smashing her into the ship’s steel casing. Sombra let out a surprised yelp of pain. The smile disappeared, replaced instead by a meek look of confusion. It occurred to Tracer that she had never seen Sombra _not_ smiling.

Sombra pushed against Tracer’s hold, but Tracer was stronger than Sombra was, even if the Overwatch agent was a few inches shorter. She grabbed Sombra by the wrist, winding it and her body so she was pressed, chest first, against the aircraft, arm twisted behind her back.

“What happened to them?” Tracer saw Sombra reaching for her gun with her free hand and grasped her by the wrist, knocking her arm against the warm metal. She quickly pulled Sombra’s gun from its holster and threw it away, out of reach. Tracer pushed herself close to Sombra, pinning her body against the ship. “Answer me.”

Sombra tried to squirm away, pushing her hips against Tracer’s as she did, but Tracer’s thoughts were too red and too fiery to register it. She pulled Sombra in close before slamming her back against the steel.

“Answer me!”

“Fine!” Sombra, even now when she was clearly in pain, didn’t sound scared. She just sounded exasperated. “Are you going to ease up a bit first?”

“I don’t think I am,” Tracer growled, tightening her grip on Sombra’s arm. “Tell me, and I might choose _not_ to break your arm.”

Sombra’s gaze had been annoyed and surprised when Tracer had grabbed her, but now it shifted a bit. Not much, the change was barely noticeable. Tracer couldn’t tell what it was exactly. Fear? Excitement? Anger?

“Your _friends_ ,” she said the word as if it was a curse, “decided to pry when it would have been wiser to stick their heads in the dirt.”

“Speak clearly for once.”

“They attacked a Talon convoy they thought was transporting some important tech. Talon knew, set them up. They were expecting them.”

“Was anybody hurt?”

Sombra didn’t answer. Tracer twisted the woman’s wrist, making her cry out in pain.

“Was anybody hurt!?”

“I don’t know,” Sombra hissed. “I _would_ have known, but you weren’t with them, little Lena. You were here instead, safe and sound.”

Tracer’s eyes flickered. She saw their faces rush past in her mind. Reinhardt’s laugh. Mercy’s caring eyes. Winston smiling at her.

It took every ounce of self-control she had not to fling all of her frustration and dread at the woman right then and there. She felt more powerless now than she’d done running these past many months. At least then she was doing something. But here, now… she was nothing. To no one.

 She took a step back, letting go of Sombra. When she spoke her voice shook.

“Leave.”

Sombra scoffed, rubbing her wrists. “I can’t do that. Believe it or not, I came here for a reason.”

“You always seem to have your reasons, but you never share them.” Tracer’s eyes fell to the ground. “Just _tell me_. Tell me what you want.”

“I already did,” Sombra said. She’d walked over to where Tracer had thrown her machine pistol. She didn’t go to pick it up. “I came here to make sure you haven’t gone and done something stupid. I can’t afford to _waste_ you.”

Sombra made it sound like Tracer was a voucher for a free meal at a restaurant that only served cooked rats.

“There are only a select number of people who can give me what I want. What I _need_. But I suppose patience is required.” Sombra left the gun lying in the grass, instead walking back over to Tracer. She twirled her finger, gesturing at her to turn around. When Tracer didn’t move, Sombra sighed.

“Give me some credit, _mija_. I’ll keep my hands to myself.” Some of the teasing returned to her face and her smile turned crooked. “Mostly.”

Tracer scowled, but turned her back to Sombra. She felt soft hands pull down her shirt and tap at the edges of her harness. Sombra’s claws clicked as they ran over it, occasionally slipping and nipping at Tracer’s skin. Her cool nails made her flesh prick up in alert attention.

It only took a few seconds before Sombra stepped in front of Tracer, holding something between her fingers no larger than an ant. She held it up to her eyes, inspecting it.

“Pity, little one,” she said as she pushed her fingers together, crushing the little thing between them. She dropped it into Tracer’s hand. It was nearly invisible against her dirty skin.

“It’s a Flea Tracker,” Sombra explained, scoffing when Tracer looked up in confusion. “I suppose it makes sense that you haven’t heard of them. What would the point be if everyone knew?”

“Is this it?” Tracer held up her hand. “ _This_ is what I was so worried about?”

“ _¿En serio? This_ ,” Sombra said, gesturing at the tracker’s carcass, “is worth more than you can earn in a year. The things I do for business.”

Sombra shook her head as her body began to dematerialize. Tracer would have blamed the shimmer left in the air on the heat if she hadn’t known better.

“Run on home, little Tracer.” Sombra’s voice was off to the side where her gun had been laying on the ground. It wasn’t there anymore. Just a patch of flattened grass where it’d been just a moment before. The woman’s voice turned cold as it moved further away.

“Don’t think I’ll forget you, _mija_. I will get what I want.”

Then she was gone and her lacking presence felt heavy in Tracer’s chest. She didn’t like Sombra - she hated her, actually - but Tracer had been alone for so long that just hearing another person’s voice was… nice.

She shook the thought from her head. She shouldn’t be thinking of Sombra in the same vein she did Winston and the others. She should wish for _their_ companionship, not Sombra’s.

 _You’re getting loopy_ , she told herself. _When you get back to them… When you get home… Then everything will be fine._

She crouched down at the bundle of wires, reaching in to connect some she’d previously torn away from each other, when she noticed that they looked different. As if a ghost had come in and put every piece of wire in its proper place.

“Not a ghost,” she snarled to herself, as the solar panels blinked to show they were now online. “Just a shadow.”

 

* * *

 

The hours following the Italy ambush were chaotic, to say the least. After Pharah had gotten Mercy into the aircraft and Athena had flown them safely away, the first nodes of panic had set in. Everyone was hurt in some way; small scrapes and cuts that would have been considered slightly serious on a normal day.

Reinhardt was the worst off. His shoulder was a mess of gore and blood. His armor had bent inward, digging further into his skin. Whenever they tried to move him he would scream in pain, sending icy memories into Pharah’s mind.

Mercy took control unbelievably fast. When they’d first entered the craft, she had clung to Pharah as if her life depended on it. She had been visibly shaking and Pharah saw tears in her eyes. _Must be from the gas._

But when the doctor had seen the pain on Reinhardt’s face any notion of fear that may have been present in her features vanished. She had gone to him and had, using her Caduceus staff, started to treat the broken shoulder.

She didn’t go far though. She could close the wound, she had explained, but that would leave pieces of iron embedded in his flesh. No, it was better to wait until they were back to their base.

And so they waited, Athena rushing the ship home, Reinhardt crying out whenever they hit any turbulence until Mercy finally decided to sedate him into unconsciousness.

When they arrived at base a few hours later, Brigitte appeared in the hangar as the ship made to dock. They had messaged her over the comms, so the young woman knew what had happened on the Italian highway. When she saw them her face turned pale. Her eyes remained tearless as she helped carry Reinhardt to the medbay, but Pharah noticed her lip quivering slightly.

Pharah looked at the girl now. The small mechanic was sitting on a bench, head resting against Reinhardt’s shoulder. She was clearly sound asleep.

When Reinhardt noticed Pharah looking he smiled warmly. Even with an arm in a sling he seemed ready to carry the world on his shoulders, should someone ask him to.

“You’ve been there too, you know.” He gestured at the sleeping Brigitte. “You were younger, but still.”

Pharah frowned thoughtfully. “I don’t remember that.”

“You were so tiny. I could carry you in one arm.” He looked at her and sighed. “You could sleep anywhere. And on any _one_ , for that matter.”

“I do remember that,” Pharah grinned. “Mother used to tell this story of how I once fell asleep in a heap of dismantled rubber isolation Torbjörn had stripped from some old turret models.”

Reinhardt laughed quietly, as to not wake the sleeping girl. Pharah doubted a thunder clash could wake her now.

Pharah gestured at Brigitte. “She sat by your side all night.”

Reinhardt looked at the young woman. There was such affection in his eyes Pharah felt a slight ache in her heart.

“She’s a good kid. Too good for my old bones.” He looked around the hangar. Technically, he was supposed to be resting in bed, but when Tracer had opened her comms, saying that she was on her way, he had insisted on being there when she landed. Mercy had been too tired to argue.

Right now it was just the three of them. Torbjörn was checking a faulty line in the security systems, while Winston had withdrawn to his office shortly after Tracer had contacted them. Mercy was away in her room, getting some rest. None of them had gotten much sleep since Sevilla, but Mercy had looked ready to topple over when she’d exited the medbay after Reinhardt’s operation. The dark bruises under her eyes had been deeper than usual.

“How is everyone else?” Reinhardt asked.

“No real damage there,” Pharah reported. “A few cuts, a few bruises. Nothing too severe.”

“No, no,” he said, shaking his head. “How _are_ they? We lost today. It hurts morale.”

Pharah nodded. She knew what he meant.

“Tracer coming back lightened everyone’s spirits.” Even Mercy, despite her exhaustion, had smiled when she’d heard, demanding to hear everything Tracer had reported. She had sat in the back of the room, so that no one would notice her eyes drooping as Winston spoke. She had basically been asleep standing up at that point.

Pharah looked out of the open hangar. Until today she hadn’t had a clear idea of where they were, geographically. She’d gotten the impression that they were somewhere in the Mediterranean Sea, and she’d been right in that assumption. They were on a Greek island, hidden by rough winds and high waves. The air was warm against her face. It tasted of sea salt.

“She should be here soon.”

Reinhardt followed her gaze to the sunny skies outside. He sighed, making Brigitte’s head rise against his moving chest. “We should never have left her there in the first place.”

He must have mistaken the look she gave him for disapproval, because he raised a hand defensively. “I know, I know. Lena knows what she’s doing. But it just doesn’t sit right with me, to leave people behind.”

_We haven’t been heroes in a long time._

Angela’s voice, haunting and beautiful in her mind. Pharah lowered her gaze.

It was the cruel reality that sacrifice had to be made in pursuit of any goal. In battle, accidents happened. People would get hurt. People would be left behind. An unfair truth, but a truth nonetheless.

 _We will remember_.

Pharah hoped she had been right. Otherwise, what was the point of all of this?

Pharah straightened, looking back out at the horizon. “Hopefully we won’t have to anymore.”

She noticed Reinhardt smiling at her then. A proud smile, full of longing and something that looked like admiration. It was like he was seeing a childhood friend for the first time in years.

A door slamming open in the other end of the hangar made all of them jump, even Brigitte who woke with a surprised squeal. Pharah’s nerves were still fidgety after the day’s combat, so her hand automatically went to the gun on her belt.

“Winston!” she said, when she realized the scientist had been the cause of the commotion. She felt relieved, as if she’d feared a squad of hostile soldiers had somehow snuck into the base.

Her relief quickly changed into concern when she noticed the grave expression on his face.

“What’s wrong?” she said.

He didn’t answer. He stared out at the bright clouds.

“Winston, what is it?” Reinhardt asked, his voice serious. “You look like you’ve just seen a ghost.”

“I may have,” the scientist mumbled under his breath. “Athena. Air space report.”

“ _Two aircrafts inbound for Watchpoint Keros,_ ” Athena’s static voice announced over the speakers _._ “ _ETA 33 minutes and 59 minutes, respectively.”_

“Two?” Pharah and Reinhardt said in unison. One was expected. Not two.

“Who is the second one?” Reinhardt asked.

Winston turned away from the open hangar doors and began rushing back to where he’d come from. “I’ll raise the others. Find your weapons.”

“Are we under attack?” Pharah yelled after him.

“I don’t know,” the gorilla cried back, and then he was gone again, leaving Pharah and Reinhardt in stunned confusion. It didn’t last more than a moment. The two soldiers shook off the feeling of unease and rushed into action.

Reinhardt was too hurt be of any help, but Brigitte was quick to jump to Pharah’s aid. The girl was surprisingly strong for her small size, pushing away heavy carts and hefts with ease. She helped Pharah move up some worktables for cover, open doors so they’d have escape routes and find weapons from the gun lockers.

It took them less than half an hour to get set up and by then, all the newly instated Overwatch agents were present in the hangar. Mercy still looked worn-out, but her eyes were alert and ready. Torbjörn had even set up an anti-aircraft cannon.

“Just in case,” he’d said.

Now they were waiting tensely, watching the skies as if Talon was just waiting to peak out from one of the many, spotless clouds.

“ _Aircraft model Hummingbird 2053-2294009 is requesting permission to land_ ,” Athena said.

“Tracer,” Winston said, and everyone let out a sigh of relief. “Granted. Let her through.”

A few seconds went by before a small, black dot appeared high up against the clear sky. The aircraft moved quickly, a dark fly among so much blue.

The craft eased into the hangar elegantly, but Pharah couldn’t help but notice the… _flair_ with which it landed.

 _Of course she’s flying manual_ , Pharah thought.

Tracer had barely made it two steps out of her ship before she found herself swarmed from all sides. The agents tutted at her, laughing in relieved happiness. Mercy was the first to reach her, pulling her into a tight hug.

“I was worried sick!” she said, absentmindedly scanning Tracer for any injuries she may have gotten.

“I’m fine,” Tracer laughed, noticing Mercy’s seeking eyes. “Completely fine. No nicks, no nags, no nothing!”

Torbjörn was next, reaching around her with a hearty laugh, followed by Winston who put a huge arm around the tiny woman. “Good to finally have you here.”

Tracer was still smiling when she came out of the hug. Her hair was in marvelous disarray standing in frizzy spikes of her head like a dark brown halo.

Her giddy demeanor made a sudden change into concern, when she noticed the weapons her friends were holding. The sudden look of worry on her face, combined with her ridiculous hair, almost made Pharah laugh.

“What’s with the guns? And where is-- Reinhardt!”

The German had gotten to his feet, cradling his wounded arm. Tracer rushed at him and halted sharply when she noticed he was clearly still in pain.

“I’m alright, girl.” His voice was strained. “I’ve been through worse.”

Tracer’s frowned and she turned towards the others. Her foot was tapping, as if she was an impatient school teacher. “What the bloody hell is going on here?”

Winston quickly explained the situation, as well as what had happened in Italy, Tracer’s frown growing deeper with every passing minute.

“Sombra mentioned that,” Tracer growled, referring to the Italian ambush. “She said that Talon knew. That they were waiting for you there.”

“How would they have known?” Winston demanded.

“She said something about a set-up. Like, they knew you were going to attack.”

_A trap. Of course._

It had been too simple. Too easy. Pharah should have known something was wrong the moment they’d seen how unprotected the convoy seemed to be. It was basically begging to be attacked.

Athena’s voice brought them back to the present.

“ _Aircraft model RedShrike 2048-4110779 is requesting permission to land.”_

Winston hesitated, looking from the horizon to a computer screen giving the specifics of the aircraft.

“How many passengers are on board?”

_“Heat signatures indicate one lifeform. Human, female.”_

“We can handle one,” Torbjörn said dryly, readying himself behind his cannon. “Let her try something; I’ll blast her to bits and place them among the stars.”

Pharah didn’t say anything. She didn’t want to ruin Torbjörn’s confidence. She could think of a hundred ways this could go wrong, a hundred reasons why they should use that blasted cannon to shoot the ship out of the sky before it even had a chance to land.

But that was not them. That was not Overwatch. They weren’t Talon, unscrupulous in their search for power. If there was a chance, even the smallest chance, that the person on the craft meant them no harm, they had to let it play out.

Pharah steeled herself behind her cover. She saw the others do the same. Winston’s tesla cannon buzzed as he readied it to fire.

“Landing request granted.”

The RedShrike model’s landing was more static and controlled than Tracer’s had been. The stranger was clearly not flying and was letting the autopilot handle the descend.

The ship was not as small as the one Tracer had been in and it was also more streamlined. It was designed for longer distances and more passengers than the Hummingbird, which could hold only the pilot and one passenger.

This ship could carry a group of six easily, and now it carried only one. _Only one that was alive, at least_.

They all straightened as the doors of the craft opened with a sharp sigh. No one appeared from the hold. There was no movement in the ship. No sound.

“If you have any weapons, toss them out of the doors,” Winston said.

A moment of silence passed before a slender arm curled around the doorframe. Pharah was ready to lower herself into cover, but what the passenger send scattering over the floor was a gun, not a grenade.

It was colored in elegant blue and black. It had a shoulder strip, worn from use, but otherwise the gun seemed to be in pristine condition. It had a long barrel, recently cleaned and mended, and a scope similar to those found on sniper rifles.

_No… not similar…_

“Now come out, with your hands behind your head.” Winston’s voice was unwavering in its command. His control was astounding, especially considering the fear that Pharah saw in his eyes.

More silence.

Then they heard the light tapping of feet against steel.

Slowly, dramatically, a figure appeared from the darkness in the RedShrike hold. She emerged like a shadow, hands at her sides and not raised like she’d been instructed to.

She wore a brown dustjacket with a hood drawn over grey hair. Her face was old and tanned, framed by a blue headdress going down protectively around her neck. She moved with cat-like grace, despite her old age, resting her weight on the tips of her toes. One side of her face was covered, partly by grey hair, but also by a large eyepatch.

But it was none of these things that made Pharah’s heart still in her chest. It wasn’t the familiar sharpness of the woman’s jaw or the proud smile on her lips. It wasn’t the way she walked, the way her hair fell in soft curls over her cheek. 

Pharah suddenly had trouble breathing. 

_The Eye._

“Ana?” Reinhardt broke the silence that had fallen over the agents as they stared. Each and every one was glaring open-mouthed at the old woman, who had now completely exited the craft. Her single brown eye found Reinhardt’s gaze. She looked at the gun in his hand and grinned.

“Is that any way to greet an old friend?”

They were all frozen still. They were like an old oil painting displaying the fervent horror felt at seeing someone you knew to be dead. She took them in, one by one. There was no fear in her features, no anger at the weapons they were still holding in their hands. Ana’s one good eye passed over them. Her demeanor never changed, always kind and open. So warm, so inviting.

Then she found Pharah.

Her face contorted at the sight of her daughter. Her happy features washed away in place of sudden shock. Her eye widened, her mouth fell open. The control that was ever present in the Ana Amari that Pharah knew, that Pharah _remembered_ … all of it was gone, instead replaced by a fear Pharah could not begin to understand.

Her mother took a step forward, reaching a hand towards Pharah.

“Fareeha…”

The name felt like glass shattering. It pierced something in Pharah’s chest, making her reel back at the sound. This pain she’d never experienced. It hurt more than any bullet ever could.

Her gun slipped from her fingers, clattering to the floor. She shook her head, never breaking eye contact with the phantom that used to be her mother.

Ana said something, but Pharah couldn’t hear it. Blood was roaring in her ears, her heart felt like a hammer against her ribs.

She turned from them - from _her_. It was all she could do not to break into a sprint as her mother’s voice shouted something at her. Pharah ignored it, pressing a hand to her mouth to strangle any sobs threatening to come out.

What she couldn’t stop were the tears springing into her eyes, blinding the soldier as she walked through a set of doors, away from the ghost she’d just seen in the hangar.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was difficult to write. Hopefully I got through it in a way that was not too boring, clammy or other adverse adjectives. 
> 
> As always, leave comments for suggestions, criticism or just plain giddiness. I read them all and it means more than you think.
> 
> Also... I have a feeling you'll like the next chapter. A lot. Stay tuned.


	7. Birds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡° )

Mercy looked down at the cup of coffee in her hands. It was warm against her fingers, coils of steam languidly dancing on the liquid’s surface. She hadn’t tasted it yet.

In fact, she didn’t know why she’d even bothered making it. She knew she should sleep, but whenever she tried the sheets felt suffocating around her body and she tossed against them, not able to find any rest. Brewing some coffee had given her something to do, even just for a few minutes. Now she was sitting on the edge of her bed, swirling a teaspoon absentmindedly in the dark drink.

The room she had been given still felt stale to her. Winston had brought them their gear, yes, but not their personals, so the room was vacant, waiting to be filled with the resident’s knickknacks and memorabilia.

It didn’t help that the room was too clean and perfect for her liking. While Mercy preferred to keep everything in order, she missed the small hints of chaos everyday life brought into the home. Here, the ruffled sheets on her bed was the only sign a person had actually been there. The room itself was quite nice, if she could just shake the feeling that she was a visitor instead of an actual occupant.

All the private living quarters in Watchpoint Keros were designed the same way. A one-room apartment with a small kitchen and a bathroom. No windows, of course. When you opened the front door everything in the living space could be seen with just one glance. A large bed, a bookcase that was mockingly empty and a small table with two too-clean chairs.

The kitchen was basic at best, barely giving the resident of the room enough utilities to boil water, but it had given Mercy her coffee which was a small blessing. Still, she didn’t drink it.

Earlier, when Mercy had used her room to get some sleep following Reinhardt’s surgery, she had been tired. Now she felt positively exhausted, but sleep was the furthest thing from her mind. How could she rest after all that had happened?

 _Ana_.

A coldness spread in her chest.

Mercy remembered the look on Pharah’s face when her mother had stepped out of that airship. The shock, the confusion. Mercy had felt the same way, her emotions battling for superiority in her mind. Joy at seeing an old friend again, the disbelief at finding out that said friend was not dead, but alive right in front of her. And powerful anger at the fact that she’d let Mercy grieve her, bury her and forget her, when in fact she hadn’t needed to.

Had Ana not cared? Did she simply put herself first, ignoring the feelings other people carried for her? It made Mercy feel betrayed. Maybe Ana had not trusted them enough, had not cared for them enough to inform her fellow agents of her decision.

And finally, and most powerfully… Mercy felt shame. Because this sense of betrayal she felt in her heart, Pharah must be feeling a hundred times over.

Mercy couldn’t begin to fathom the pain Pharah felt. She must be thinking her mother hated her. Detested her enough that she would rather kill the woman she’d been, than spend time with her own daughter.

But that wasn’t true. That couldn’t be true. Not the Ana Mercy remembered. Not the woman with such love and devotion in her eyes, when she talked about her little Fareeha. The pride when she saw her daughter spar against men twice her size, and see them work up a sweat at it. That woman could simply not be the ghost they’d seen in the hangar.

After Pharah had gone it was clear Ana wanted to explain. The Ana from Mercy’s memories would have planned her report in advance so she could give it fast and easily. But the old woman had not expected Pharah to be there and the sight of her daughter had knocked any semblance of control from the thought-dead Overwatch agent.

In the end, it had been Reinhardt who had broken the silence, nearly running to the old woman despite his injuries. The others had stood where they were, still frozen in shock, as Reinhardt had put his one good arm around Ana and hugged her fiercely. He had mumbled something into her hair, something Mercy couldn’t hear, but it made Ana’s eye tear up. Or maybe it was something else that did that, since her gaze had still been locked to the set of doors Pharah had disappeared through.

A knock on the door nearly made Mercy spill her coffee. She pulled her covers over her chest.

“Yes?”

No answer.

Mercy frowned and stood. Since Winston hadn’t yet been able to get them much in the way of a wardrobe, she didn’t have any of the robes or chemises she usually kept by her bed. Not wanting to let whoever it was wait for her to get fully dressed, and not wanting to open the door in nothing but bra and panties, she stood and grabbed the doctor’s coat she’d taken from the medbay. It was too large for her, and nearly went to her knees, but it covered her well enough for her to appear decent.

The problem with the power generators had yet to be fixed, so the living quarters were still without proper lighting. As a temporary fix, Winston had supplied them all with a large stack of candles they could use until the power got up and running. Mercy hadn’t turned on too many, so her movement through the apartment was slow out of fear of bumping into anything.

She opened the door, partially hiding her indecently dressed body behind it as she scouted the hall. It took her a moment to find the cause of the knock in a dark shape slumped against the wall opposite her room.

“Fareeha,” she said surprised, once she recognized the droopy shape. Pharah had a bottle in her hand. “What are you doing here?”

Pharah looked up, blinking Mercy into focus. Her jaw was set stubbornly, but Mercy could tell something was very wrong. This wasn’t the stoic woman she’d seen on the battlefield, nor was it the hard commander she’d met in Cairo. This was something else entirely.

“I--” Pharah’s voice immediately cracked and she took in shuddering breaths until her voice was under control. “I didn’t know where to go.”

Mercy paused, not knowing what to say. Pharah’s eyes found hers, pleading her. Begging her.

“I don’t want to be alone.”

Mercy hesitated, going through her options and found few. She also found wonder and confusion. _Why had she come_ here _?_

“Would you like to come in?”

Pharah just nodded and walked into Mercy’s room. Her steps were certain enough, but there was a sway to her walk denying any thought Mercy might have had about the soldier’s sobriety.

She went to the small table. Mercy had lit some candles there earlier and Pharah’s movement made the flames flutter. Fareeha fiddled with the cap of her surprisingly empty bottle.

“Who gave you that?” Mercy asked, gesturing at the bottle as she walked over. She kept her arms crossed over her chest to keep her coat from opening.

“Torbjörn said I needed it.” She sounded so far away. As if the real Fareeha was stuck in a cage somewhere on the other side of the world. Pharah chuckled without humor and placed the bottle on the table. “He was right.”

“Hardly ever happens,” Mercy said, smiling softly as she sat down across from Pharah. “Let him have his small victories, I guess.”

Pharah didn’t answer. Her gaze went blank as she slipped into herself. Her hands lay quietly in her lap and her shoulders were stiff against the back of the chair. Even now, when she was somber and drunk, she didn’t let her facade falter. She was barricading herself behind a self-made wall, thinking that if she didn’t allow herself to feel anything then she couldn’t be hurt.

Mercy recognized that face. She’d seen it before, years ago, at Ana’s funeral. Mercy had expected the young woman to cry as the casket lowered into the ground. She had expected Pharah to show something on her face, but her features had been stone. They were stone now.

“Have you talked to her yet?” Mercy asked. Pharah shook her head.

“Have you?”

Mercy shrugged and looked down. “Briefly.”

“Did she give you a good explanation?” Pharah’s mask was cracking, but she quickly got it under control.

“She didn’t give me any explanation,” Mercy admitted.

Pharah scoffed, eyeing the bottle on the table. Mercy looked at it too. She raised an eyebrow.

“Akvavit?” She couldn’t quite keep a laugh from her voice. “Really?”

Pharah’s smile was small, but present. She shrugged. “Beggars and choosing, you know?”

Mercy nodded. It wasn’t as much Pharah she was laughing at, as it was Torbjörn’s excessive need to be a cliché. She pushed the bottle further in on the table before looking back at Pharah.

“Where did you go? This afternoon?”

Pharah’s smile turned into a grimace. It had been hours since Ana had arrived and none of them had seen Pharah since then. Not even when the sun had set and Winston had procured some food for them to share.

“I walked,” she said. Mercy gestured for her to continue. “Torbjörn found me in the gym. Gave me that.” She made a wave at the bottle of Akvavit on the table. “This island has some ugly coasts. At least drinking improved the view by blurring it.”

_But why are you here?_

“And then? You didn’t go to your room.”

Pharah looked up. “How do you know?”

“Ana went to look for you. She went almost everywhere, actually. I’m surprised you managed to avoid her.”

Pharah mirrored Mercy, crossing her arms over her chest. Her brown eyes flared.

“Is she disappointed in our little gathering?”

Mercy paused a moment before answering.

“She’s… I don’t think this is what she expected.”

“Not what _she_ expected?” Her voice was cold. “I’m thinking all of this is pretty fucking far from what anyone expected, Angela. We weren’t supposed to be so few, we weren’t supposed to lose the first encounter we had and we _weren’t_ supposed to be haunted by history.”

Mercy looked down. Pharah wanted an explanation. She wanted to understand so badly why _this_ had happened. Why her mother had chosen to let her daughter believe she was an orphan rather than come out of the shadows. It pained Mercy that she couldn’t give the woman the answer she was looking for.

“She never cared. She wanted something else than what I wanted to be. She wanted a child who wasn’t me, who wasn’t like she was.” Pharah’s voice turned angry. “When I was seventeen I brought home a recruitment flyer for the Egyptian army. She saw it in my bag while I went to get something from my room. She screamed at me, saying that _I_ was being irresponsible, throwing away my chance at a good life.”

“She wanted you safe.”

“Safe? _Safe_!?” Pharah stood, making her chair clatter back over the floorboards. “How do you think I felt! Do you think I felt _safe_ with her as my mother? She left me, Angela. Over and over and over again. She died in my mind so many times. Every time she stepped into an aircraft to go to a mission. Every time someone demanded her presence on the battlefield. Every time she left, I feared I would never see her again. That is not safe, that’s not _love_! You don’t do something so cruel to someone you actually care about.”

The anger in her eyes was as hot as the candle flames on the table. Her hands were shaking. Mercy slowly got to her feet.

“Fareeha, please…”

“Don’t!” Pharah took a sharp step backwards. Her entire body seemed to be shivering. “Don’t try to make this alright. It won’t be alright, it won’t. _She_ made it like this. She made me think, made me _know_ that she was dead. How can you expect me to forgive her for that?”

“I never said you should.” Mercy ignored the fury in Pharah’s eyes as she walked closer. Her voice was the complete opposite of Pharah’s; calm and inviting. “You don’t owe her anything. You _should_ be angry with her, you should be goddamn furious.”

Mercy put a hand on Pharah’s arm. It was taut beneath her leather jacket, just as the rest of her. Every fiber in the soldier’s body was tensed, hardening at the doctor’s touch. A suit of armor, unbreakable and strong.

“Don’t punish yourself for her mistakes. Ana… I have no doubt in my mind that she loves you.” Mercy kept going before Pharah had a chance to interrupt. “She wanted a better life for you. Better than this, better than Overwatch. You know now, you know the burden we carry. The lives we take and lose in our service. Can you really blame her for wanting to spare you that? For wanting your life to be without that weight? Without that pain?”

Pharah shook beneath Mercy’s gentle touch. “I am strong enough to do this.”

“Yes, you are.” Mercy could feel the tremors in Pharah’s body stilling. “Your mother loves you. She loves you more than you could possibly understand. But your strength is her weakness, your wants are her undoing. I know you are strong enough to carry this burden, _you_ know you’re strong enough. But Ana isn’t. She was never strong enough to see you in pain.”

 The fire in the soldier’s eyes dimmed, then extinguished. Something in her fractured. A bearing column in her indestructible defense. Her lip started to quiver and the fire that had been in her eyes was replaced with tears. She put her head against Mercy’s shoulder.

“I buried her.” Pharah’s voice was low against the doctor’s jacket. Fareeha’s arms went around Angela, clutching at her like a drowning man would a life raft. The soldier’s legs gave way and she started to fall. Mercy had no choice but to slide with her, until they were both crouched on the floor, Pharah’s face buried in Mercy’s shoulder.

“I know.” Angela put her arms around the younger woman, pulling her into an embrace as the hard shell Pharah had been hiding behind fell to pieces around her.

“She was dead, I _knew_ that she was dead, she--” The rest became unintelligible as Pharah began to cry softly, turning the fabric of Mercy’s coat wet. Her hands clutched at Angela’s back, finding support in the smaller woman’s strength.

Mercy let a gentle hand stroke through Pharah’s hair, still holding her close. She planted a small kiss on the top of Pharah’s head. “I know, Fareeha. I know.”

They sat there on the floor for a long time. The candles Mercy had lit in the apartment burned calmly, casting feint, playing shadows on the walls. The flame made the temperature in the room rise, and Mercy felt sweat pearl on her back where Pharah’s hands were still holding her.

Angela rocked slowly back and forth, cooing soft words into Pharah’s ear while she wept. She continued even after the woman stopped crying and she was just sitting there, limply, face still pressed into Mercy’s shoulder.

It wasn’t until Pharah began to move that Mercy let her go. Her shoulder was wet from Fareeha’s tears, as was the soldier’s face. Streaks ran in chaotic lines from her eyes, and her nose had turned red from sniffling. But now she was quiet. Almost too quiet.

Mercy made to stand, but Pharah’s hands on her waist - while not firm - were unmoving. Angela stopped, looking up at the soldier sitting across from her. Fareeha’s eyes were wide, staring at Angela as if seeing her for the first time. Her mouth was open in something that seemed like yearning or wonder.

“What is--”

Angela’s sentence was cut off briskly by Fareeha’s lips suddenly pressing against her own. The doctor went stiff as Pharah’s warm lips grazed hers in a kiss so soft it was barely present.

The alcohol from Fareeha’s mouth fell on Angela’s lips, burning sweetly against her skin. Her hands, still resting on Mercy’s waist, didn’t move. Didn’t even tighten. They were just… there. Holding her. Supporting her.

Angela could not say how long they stayed like that, two bodies connected in a touch so light it was almost nonexistent. Mercy’s arms had fallen to her sides, opening up her jacket slightly. Beneath the layer of white fabric, her black bra teased out, but neither of them noticed. Fareeha’s eyes were closed in the kiss, Angela’s open and stunned.

Then Pharah moved away, leaving Mercy blinking in awe of what had just happened. A thousand thoughts raised through her mind, as Pharah opened her dark eyes and looked at her with such longing in her gaze it made a chill run up Angela’s spine.

 _I shouldn’t do this_ , she thought. _It’s unethical. She’s a colleague. She’s a soldier, a patient. She is the daughter of your old commander. She is drunk. She is confused. She doesn’t know what she’s doing._

Every reason was there. Every thought telling her that she should back away. That she should not let this happen.

All except for one. One that screamed louder than all the rest put together. The one thought saying that she really, _really_ wanted to kiss her again.

“I’m sorry,” Pharah muttered and turned away. She removed her hands from Mercy’s waist, leaving a burning memory where they’d been. “I don’t know why I did that.”

She didn’t rise. Neither of them did. They sat there, two women, tangled in each other, but somehow not touching. Fareeha was looking away, circles of red rising in her cheeks. Mercy suspected something similar was happening to her own face.

Calmly, holding herself back, she took Pharah’s hand in her own, making the soldier turn her eyes back towards Mercy.

_Don’t be stupid, Angela._

She wanted to say something. Anything. But the words were stuck in her throat, winding in her chest expectantly. She should be the responsible one. She should stop this before it even began. She should, she _knew_ she should.

_Don’t do something you’ll regret._

She would regret it. Wouldn’t she? Once Pharah sobered up and realized what had happened. The awkwardness that would ensue. A perfect reason. A _perfect_ reason to say something dismissive and lead the soldier from her room.

But, in the end… Angela didn’t say anything.  

She leaned forward, tentatively pressing her lips against Pharah’s. Like Fareeha’s kiss it was slow, trying its way forward in fear of being too intrusive. A frightened kiss, scared of rejection.

Pharah surprised her by parting her lips and darting her tongue into Angela’s mouth. Angela let out a huff that was more groan than breath and answered Fareeha’s eager tongue with her own. She pushed herself closer to the soldier, letting slender hands run up her strong back, feeling Pharah’s muscles tighten, even through her jacket.

 _How could she possibly regret_ this _?_

Pharah was the one who started standing, pulling Mercy with her. Fareeha’s mouth burned from the alcohol, but Mercy didn’t care. She reveled in it, licked at it hungrily, wanting more. She pressed herself against Pharah’s chest. In turn, Fareeha’s hands went under the white coat, touching Angela’s skin for the first time. Her fingers were rough and callused, yet they felt like feathers as they brushed against her stomach.

One hand went to her spine. It pressed against the small of her back, pushing Angela’s hips against Pharah’s. The other wandered upwards, until it found Mercy’s breast, cupping it in her hand. The doctor moaned as Fareeha squeezed her flesh. There was something desperate about Pharah’s touch. As if the need to feel another person next to her was more important than anything else.

Angela’s own hands went up, caressing Fareeha’s shoulder and neck, finally tangling themselves in her jet-black hair. Her gold bands clinked against each other, their sound an enchanting melody to her ears.

The soldier’s hair carried a scent of seawater and harsh winds, sharp against Angela’s senses. She took it in, breathed it greedily, tasting the salt and alcohol on Fareeha’s tongue. Every taste made her want to continue. Made her want to go further.

Pharah pulled at the white coat still around Mercy’s shoulders.

“Take it off.” Her voice was gruff. Angela barely registered the words before she was out of the jacket, white fabric falling to the floor. Mercy’s hands dropped and began undoing Pharah’s belt.

“You too.” She doubted the words were even audibly between the sounds of their kissing, wet and frequent in the quiet apartment, but Fareeha understood the meaning nonetheless. She pulled off her own jacket, throwing it on the floor, while Mercy disposed of the belt.

As the soldier untangled herself from her jeans, she was somehow able to guide Mercy backwards. Their walk was waddling, inelegant in the darkness and interrupted harshly when Pharah pressed the doctor up against one of the bare walls.

The wall was cool against Mercy’s naked skin, Fareeha’s fingers were embers. They trailed over her, exploring her, caressing her. The soldier’s skillful hands went behind Mercy’s back, easily undoing the clasp of her bra. Pulling off the black lace with one hand, the other was quick to find one of Angela’s nipples, pinching it hard between two fingers.

Fareeha’s sharp touch sent a shockwave through Angela who whined into her lover’s mouth, enticing Pharah to keep touching the sensitive area. Angela retaliated, pushing her hands under the top Pharah was still wearing. It was tight against her body, the muscles under her skin hard against Mercy’s fingers.

“You’re still overdressed,” Angela said. She had meant it to sound teasing, but her voice was too breathy to sound anything other than craving. It had an immediate effect on Fareeha, who made a sound similar to a growl. She put her hands under Angela’s thighs, yanking her up so her legs were around the soldier’s waist, her back still against the wall.

“Never mind that,” she groaned against Mercy’s collarbone. She kept one hand under Angela’s buttocks to keep her up, the other knotted around a fistful of blonde hair.

The doctor pushed herself against Fareeha, feeling the soldier's breasts against her body. She couldn’t see Pharah’s face, it was still pressed against her shoulder, so she was caught off guard when Pharah moved the hand supporting Mercy's backside ever so slightly, letting a finger slide along the length of her sex.

The movement was slow, deliberately so, making Angela’s toes curl, making her thighs tighten around Fareeha. Once the finger had run along the length of her lips, it paused at her clit before putting slight pressure on it. Angela’s arms, which until then had had a loose grip on the soldier, now tightened around her neck as she let out a deep moan. Pharah’s fingers pulled at her hair, the slight pain adding to Angela’s building desire. She could feel her panties grow embarrassingly wet as Fareeha repeated the movement, running her finger against the inside of Angela’s lips, once again finishing by putting pressure on her erect clit.

“Fareeha, please…” Her legs tightened again as Pharah put more pressure behind her finger’s touch. “The bed.”

Pharah made a noise rising from somewhere deep in her chest. Dark and primal. Mercy shivered at the pure desire in the sound.

Fareeha moved her hands, lowering Angela slightly so their lips could once again meet in a heated kiss, as she turned towards the doctor’s bed. The muscles in her arms tightened as she basically threw Angela down on the mattress, pulling away the doctor’s soaked underwear. Pharah crawled over Angela, leaving a trail of wet kisses along her body before their lips joined again. Their tongues danced eagerly now, the sounds of their kisses interrupted only by moans.

She could not wait. Heat was rising from between her legs, hotter than she’d expected. It burned, her wanting hurt against her insides.

Angela pushed herself up, flipping Fareeha over so the lithe doctor was now straddled over her hips. The soldier had not expected this maneuver, letting out a low gasp.

“I can’t wait anymore,” Angela moaned into Pharah’s neck. Her teeth were nipping at the woman’s skin.

Not asking for permission, she’d seen it in the desire in Fareeha’s eyes, she pulled down the soldier’s black panties, ripping them slightly. The desire rising from Pharah was hot against Angela’s fingers and she was pleased to find that the woman was just as wet she was. Mercy let her fingers trail Fareeha’s lips softly, only barely touching her clit as her fingers brushed past.

Pharah darted up at the touch. She had been lying flat on the bed, Mercy seated on top of her, her hands resting on the doctor’s hips. But now she’d moved, as if shocked upwards by Angela’s smooth touch. They were face to face now, so close Mercy could see the lines of green in Fareeha’s brown eyes.

For a moment, Angela feared she’d done something wrong. That she had, somehow, misinterpreted the situation. That she’d taken advantage.

Pharah’s breathing slowed down, ragged in the stillness. Mercy’s own was nearly gone, fright making her throat knit together. 

 _A mistake_ , she thought. _This was a mistake._

A long second passed. Another. Silence between the two of them.

Pharah raised her hand, brushing a stray lock of blonde hair away from Mercy’s face. The hand continued, falling to her shoulder, trailing her spine. Then over her buttocks, to come to rest between her legs, like it’d been when the soldier had pressed Angela against the wall. Her rough fingers lost their sharpness when she touched her. Lost all need for hardness. _So gentle._

Then she flicked her finger, putting sudden pressure on Mercy’s wanting clit. The touch drew a cry from Angela’s lips, one that was louder than those previous.

“Oh, God!” Mercy’s voice was shaking now. One of the doctor’s hands were still between Fareeha’s legs, the other clutched at the soldier's back. She felt tendrils of muscle work eagerly as Pharah moved her fingers in a slow dance around Mercy’s center.

Their mouths met again, lips hard and hungry against each other. Angela’s own hand started to move, finding the aligning pace to Pharah’s blissful assault. Her slender surgeon’s fingers rolled over Fareeha’s lips, over her clit, until the soldier’s sighs turned to moans against Angela’s mouth, and the woman had to break away to suck in a sharp breath.

They moved slow against each other, the speed decided by Pharah’s gentle, _painfully_ gentle, massaging of Angela’s clit. Each time the soldier’s finger twitched over it, Mercy felt the ache in her chest growing stronger. Louder. _Deafening_.

“Fareeha, I-- _Oh!”_ Angela bit down hard on her lip to still her eager cries for _more_. More of Fareeha’s keen touch. Her fingers moved so slow, so gently, it was near torturous. Angela’s thighs began trembling as Pharah’s fingers quickened ever so slightly.

“Angela…”

The sound of her name on Fareeha’s lips was beyond intoxicating. Angela felt full, felt overflowing with desire and she pulled Pharah close, kissing her deeply as she thrust her hips against Fareeha’s fingers. Her own hand, still massaging the soldier’s clit, went down to thrust two fingers into her, quickly and mercilessly.

Pharah cried out in pleasure as Angela curled her fingers inside the soldier, reaching the spot deep inside that could make people forget their own name, if used correctly. Fareeha’s back was arched, her still covered chest pressed against Mercy’s naked body. She cried out again, moving her hips against Mercy’s hand as the doctor thrusted her fingers forward.

“Oh, Angela…” she exhaled between moans. Every breath was a cry, every intake a hiss as Pharah’s hips and Mercy’s fingers moved with each other in perfect tandem. Angela’s hand was slick from Fareeha’s juices. Her breath mingled with Angela’s own, their lips resting only an inch from each other, barely touching. Pharah’s voice was a groan as she let her own hand work in same tempo as Angela’s hips, falling into a rhythm that turned their increasing moans into a duet.

They moved faster now, Fareeha’s fingers slipping over Angela’s clit, sending waves upon waves of fire through her body. Mercy’s hand pressed against Pharah’s sex, two fingers curling inside her, moving with the thrust of the soldier’s wanting hips.

Fire roared in Angela’s chest. It was consuming her, burning her to pieces. Fareeha’s hands on her body… Her tongue flicking against her lips.

“Please. Fareeha, I-- _nngh_!” Her moan was quivering in her chest, sending spasms rushing through her body. She felt Pharah’s hips move faster.

“I’m-- I’m going to-” The suddenness of her orgasm turned any words she might have been about to say into a loud moan. She closed her eyes, pressing her body against Fareeha’s as an enormous surge of pleasure thundered through her. At the same moment, she felt Fareeha’s inner walls tighten around her fingers, her thighs quivering against the underside of Angela’s legs.

The soldier let out a deep, low groan that sent Angela toppling over the edge. The control she’d held until now broke into a thousand pieces as the world came apart around her. Spasms were the only coherent movement her body was able to make as she convulsed against Fareeha’s fingers, still pressing firmly on her clit.

Pharah in turn moved rhythmically against Mercy’s hand, her own orgasm roaring through them like a wave. Mercy’s fingers were slippery from Fareeha’s desire, Angela’s throat raw from her cries.

As they both stilled, their movements grew gentle against each other. Fareeha’s fingers softly carrying Mercy through the orgasm, Mercy’s hand doing the same. The soldier slumped against Angela, her weight heavy against the smaller woman. Their gasps found each other in the post-orgasm fog that flowed through their minds. Their sweat beaded together, their skin in glorious contrast - milk touching honey.

Pharah leaned against Mercy, neither of them willing to break the silence that engulfed them. The only sound in the room was their labored breathing. Their chests rose rapidly, trying to regain some of the breath they’d stolen from one another. When Mercy withdrew her hands from Fareeha, the soldier whimpered quietly.

It was an odd feeling, sitting there. The energy in Angela’s body was spent, the exhaustion she’d felt before Pharah had knocked on her door was crawling back into her bones. Her eyelids felt heavy, her hands quivered against Fareeha’s shoulders.

“That was…” Angela paused, not knowing how to describe what had just happened.

“Pretty fucking good?” Fareeha said. She sounded as drained as Angela felt.

“That about sums it up, yes.” Angela’s hands slid down, reaching the line of Fareeha’s dark army top. She pulled at it playfully. “You’re still wearing your shirt.”

Her voice was strained, as if she’d just run a marathon. Fareeha laughed, the shortness of her own breath making it husky.

“You didn’t give me time to take it off.”

Angela blushed. She realized she was still sitting on top of Pharah, stark naked, while Fareeha could still hide behind the decency of her top. Her face went red as she climbed off the soldier’s lap. A part of her wanted to grab her bedsheets and cover herself from head to toe. Instead, Mercy picked the discarded doctor’s coat from the floor and slid it over her shoulders. All the while, she felt Fareeha’s eyes follow her every movement.

When she turned to look at the woman, Angela found that she was staring at her. She pulled her coat tight around her body. “What is it?”

Pharah realized she was staring and looked away. “Nothing, I just--”

She stopped, looking down at her hands. She’d pulled the sheets up to cover herself while Mercy had gone to pick up the white coat.

It occurred to Angela how small one person could look in that large bed. Especially hunched over, like Fareeha was now. She was curled in on herself, avoiding Mercy’s eyes.

 _Why?_ she wondered. _What was she afraid of?_

Mercy went back to the bed, sitting down on the edge of the mattress. Pharah looked up at her, at her gentle expression.

“What did you just?” Angela kept her voice low. Like they were sharing a secret.

Pharah looked away a moment, then back at Angela. This time her gaze was locked to the doctor’s bright, blue eyes. “I was… considering.”

Angela raised an eyebrow. “Considering?”

Fareeha looked away again. Her cheeks were bright red now, the black lines of her Horus tattoo contrasted against her blush. “Wondering is probably the better word.”

“Do you want to tell me what you were wondering?”

Fareeha smiled softly. “I was just thinking how… how I’d never…” She struggled with the words. “I’ve never _seen_ you like that before.”

“Like what?” Angela grinned. “Recently fucked?”

Pharah’s face went bright scarlet and Angela felt a laugh bubble in her chest. She clearly hadn’t expected Angela to be so candid. Mercy kept the laugh to herself, instead giving the soldier a bright smile.

“Not exactly that, no,” Pharah said, sharing Angela’s teasing smile. “It’s just… I didn’t think of you, like this. Before. I mean… I thought _sometimes_ , but…”

She stopped herself, taking in a deep breath. “I couldn’t _not_ look at you just now. It was weird, I’ve never… That’s never been an issue before.”

Angela felt her heart quicken in her chest. She couldn’t exactly say she was embarrassed of anything; she’d never even considered Fareeha in any romantic capacity. She was the daughter of Ana Amari, her commander and friend. That had been it. Always just that.

Until Fareeha had put her lips against hers and Angela had felt as if her nerves were suddenly on fire.

“I know what you mean.” Her voice was serious. She moved closer, just a little bit. Pharah stiffened. “It’s like… you’ve never seen the other person. Not really. Like you saw a shell, painted to fit your expectations.”

She’d moved so close her hip was now pressed against Pharah’s thigh through the sheet.

“And now the shell is gone and what’s inside is…” Angela looked up. Fareeha was looking at her intently. Her eyes were bright in the dark room, the few candles that were still burning glinted in her golden jewelry. Her mouth was slightly open, exhaling softly.

“Beautiful,” Fareeha finished. It was barely a whisper, barely audible. The hairs on Mercy’s neck stood up.

“Yes.” She looked at the woman in front of her again. Her strong arms that had so easily held her weight. Her fine, sharp jaw she’d inherited from her mother. The glint of kindness in her eyes that was entirely her own. Angela was out of breath again. “Beautiful.”

Fareeha was the one who leaned forward first, beating Angela by only by a nanosecond. Their movements were not hesitant as they’d been the first time their lips had met, nor were they as eager as the heated kisses they’d shared only minutes before. This was new. Different.

The kiss was natural, their lips sticking together like two puzzle pieces. It was not demanding, it wasn’t greedy for _more_. It was validating. A confirmation that what they’d done was real and not a cruelly constructed dream made up in their minds.

_A mistake._

The voice had returned, gnawing at the edges of her mind, but Angela forced it away. She felt only Fareeha’s lips, felt only rough fingers tangling with her own.

“I could use some sleep now,” Angela said as they parted again. She let out a little laugh. “I’m afraid you’ve worn me out.”

Fareeha smiled as Angela crawled up next to her. The soldier put her arms around the doctor, pulling her into an embrace. She pulled up the sheet so that it covered both of them.

“ _Malak_.” Her voice was soft, a breeze against Mercy’s ear. It was calming, protective.

_A mistake. This was a mistake._

_No_ , she thought, as her exhaustion caught up with her. Her eyes closing, her face resting against Fareeha’s chest.

_No, it wasn’t._

 

* * *

 

_Clack. Clack. Clack._

Mrs. Asti was glaring openly at her now, at her nails tapping against the table. Before, the Talon executive had only let her contempt show in small scoffs or a roll of the eyes, but that was before she’d spent twenty minutes alone in a room with their newest asset.

_Clack. Clack. Clack._

The Italian woman was about to burst from annoyance. Her heels tapped impatiently against the floor as she paced the conference room, writhing her hands.

_Clack. Clack. Clack._

It was happening. She was going to flip. Her professional little facade would crack into obscenity. So close. _So close_ …

The door opened to let Mr. Krone enter the room. Sombra growled, slightly more annoyed at the man’s presence than usual. A tiny woman carrying a stack of papers was following Krone. His new assistant. They never stayed long enough to be called anything other than _new_.

“Marzia, my dear!” Krone exclaimed when he saw Asti. “So sorry to keep you waiting.”

Asti scowled at Sombra who waved her fingers at the woman. It clearly didn’t improve her mood.

“Yes, Mr. Krone. Do understand that I have better things to do with my time than wait for you and your little _plaything_.”

“Plaything?” Sombra said, sounding way more insulted than she actually was. She smiled at the woman. “Is that what you think of me, _amiga_? With that dirty talk you’ll convince me to jump ship in no time.”

Krone’s brows shot up.

“Sombra!”

Sombra shrugged, twirling a little purple square of light between her fingers. Talon really didn’t have room for _any_ fun.

“Why is _she_ here?” Asti hissed.

Krone hadn’t taken his eyes off of Sombra. He gestured at her, impatiently.

“Show her.”

“At least buy me dinner first,” Sombra teased, flipping the purple square around to face the two Talon operatives. The square blew up to show a wavelength audio file, next to a map with a bright, red dot blinking to indicate a location somewhere in eastern Europe.

“What is this?” Asti asked. “More stupid ideas like your highway ambush? We lost two agents and have been plastered on every Italian newsfeed since. We don’t need more attention.”

Krone nodded at Sombra. “Play it.”

She did as she was told, letting the audio speak for itself.

_“Can you hear me? Reporting in to Overwatch Watchpoint, do you copy?”_

Asti frowned. “Who is that?”

Krone schussed her, letting the voice continue.

 _“Calling for Overwatch Watchpoint, responding to the recall. Do you copy? Location undisclosed,”_ Sombra scoffed at this, _“awaiting response. Calling for Overwatch Watchpoint--”_

Sombra stopped the recording, waving the screen away. “It goes on like that for a while.”

Asti looked at them both. It clearly wasn’t just Sombra and her nail clacking she was frustrated with anymore. Her fists balled against her stylish business suit.

“Tell me straight, Krone. No more of these theatricals.”

Krone grinned sharply. He did it often and Sombra couldn’t help but feel sad for the man whenever he did it. It was clear he thought it seemed intimidating, where in reality it just made him look idiotic.

“That… was the voice of Mei-Ling Zhou, calling to accept her Overwatch recall.”

“So?” Asti clearly wasn’t impressed. “You called me here to tell me that Overwatch is back in action? We knew that little piece of information already. In fact, I distinctly remember it being my department who brought it to _your_ attention when it happened.”

“We got her location,” Krone said.

“She didn’t mention it.”

“I don’t _need_ her to mention it.” Now Sombra was actually insulted. She’d tracked the broadcast easily enough to a hotel in Hungary. Then a day later in Slovakia, followed shortly by Austria. She moved fast, probably trying to stay ahead of any tracking. Normally, she would have been successful. But normally, you weren’t being hunted by Sombra.

Asti’s nostrils flared. “So what then? Do you want to set up another ambush, trying to draw them out once more? They’ll be too wary, too careful. They’d never fall for that again.”

“Not an ambush.” Krone’s stupid smile turned hungry. His eyes widened. “A rescue.”

“This is ridiculous. You always were too impatient for your own good, Krone.” Asti shook her head in bewilderment. “It’s been a week since we confirmed the reactivation of Overwatch, and so far the two assaults against them you’ve led - one of your own turf, one on _mine_ , have been failures. And now you want a third chance?”

Asti scoffed and began walking towards the door. She took the time to glower at Sombra on the way. “I’m taking this up with the board. Your quarrelsome ways bring nothing to this organization but empty promises and ugly headlines.”

“We already have her.”

Asti froze where she stood. Her sharp posture was stiff as a statue’s. “ _What_?”

“We intercepted her as she tried to make her way into Germany. She is currently incarcerated at one of our Talon facilities. In Spain.” He smiled politely at Asti. “I preferred to keep this one close at hand.”

“You little--” Asti stopped her outcry before it even began, forcing it down with a deep breath. “Why would you do such a thing?”

Krone pursed his lips thoughtfully. “Let me see… She was answering the recall, which leads me to believe she knows the location of the new Overwatch headquarters. At the very least, she has an idea of how to get in contact with them.”

“Clearly, she _doesn’t_ ,” Asti growled. “You heard it yourself, she got no response from her so-called allies.”

“Because we didn’t want her to.” Krone glanced over at Sombra, who had gone back to playing with a ball of purple light.

“It was simple, really,” she said, not looking at Asti. “I barely did anything.”

“So what now?” Asti’s voice was shaking from badly hidden fury. “Another ambush? Another false bait? What?”

“I told you, it’s not an ambush.”

 _That fucking smile_. Sombra sneered as Krone grinned again.

“It’s a rescue.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Had a few days off, so I got to write more than I expected. And oh boy...  
> However, this means that the next chapter will take a bit longer to write, so I thought I would leave you with a treat.
> 
> Comments of all kinds are welcome. Your feedback can only make it better.  
> Much love to you.


	8. Ice

When Pharah woke she was alone in the bed. This wasn’t exactly unusual for her, she almost always slept alone. Working with Helix had never afforded her enough time to sustain any relationship lasting longer than a hangover, so a lonely bed was not unknown to her, but it was rare that she found herself _waking_ alone. She was always the one to follow whatever lover she’d found for the night to their apartment. She was the one who had the “you have a lovely home” lines or, alternatively, would frantically search for the bedroom between kisses and touches, stumbling through unknown living spaces, leaving a trail of discarded clothing behind on the floor. And she was the one to rise in the early hours of the morning and sneak out of the apartment before her partner woke up.

Being on the other side of the arrangement was an odd and not particularly pleasant feeling.

Still with her eyes closed, she trailed her hand over Angela’s side of the bed, finding only ruffled sheets and the faint smell of perfume the doctor had left behind. Fareeha opened her eyes. And regretted it immediately.

The room was bathed in a golden glow, despite the lack of windows. During the night or morning, the generators must have come online, giving light to the living quarters. It burned into Fareeha’s eyes, making her groan loudly and immediately shield her gaze with a hand.

“I’m never drinking again,” she mumbled, as she carefully looked around the room. The rays of light felt like daggers stabbing into her skull. Her brain had been replaced by a very mobile and very irritable porcupine. “God damn you, Torbjörn.”

A sharp knock on the door made Pharah jump. The sudden movement sent new spikes of pain through her body and she slid down on the bed, whining quietly.  A trilly, accented voice pierced into her aching head like a knife.

“Angie, luv!” _Tracer. Shit._ “Winston needs us for a meeting. He said to move fast-like.”

Fareeha looked around in a panic. Angela was nowhere to be found. She hadn’t left already, had she?

“You there, Angela?” Another knock, more insistent this time. “Don’t make me kick down this door and pull you out of bed, you lazy.”

_Shit._

_Shit, shit, shit._

“Umm…” Fareeha said, pitching her voice higher in a vague and terrible impression of Angela. “I’ll be right there!”

“Are you okay? You sound weird.”

“I’m super.” _Why did you say that?_ Pharah cleared her throat, as if that would somehow make her impression anything other than awful. “Just… got something in my throat.”

While her mind still tried to figure out what to say next, the bathroom door opened. Fareeha turned to see Angela exiting, drying her hair with a towel. She didn’t have a bathrobe, so she was still wearing the doctor’s coat, though she’d buttoned it up now. The oversized jacket fell in smooth folds against her damp body, leaving little to the imagination as to what was beneath the fabric. Fareeha’s face turned red.

“Help!” She mouthed at Angela who looked puzzled at the panic in Fareeha’s eyes.

“Is everything alright?” Tracer again, her voice more serious now.

Angela stifled a laugh with her hand. There was amusement in her eyes as she turned towards the door.

“I’m coming, Lena. Just need to get dressed first.”

“Alright,” Tracer said. She was hesitating. “Is everything okay? You sounded--”

“I’m fine. Give me few minutes, I’ll be right there.”

Silence. Pharah held her breath.

“Okay… I’ll see ya down below. Don’t take too long.”

Then she was gone and Fareeha led out a long sigh of relief. She looked up to see Angela desperately trying to contain a smile.

“Oh, laugh it up, why don’t you?” Fareeha said sarcastically.

“I didn’t say anything.” Angela’s voice shook from badly contained laughter.

Fareeha groaned and covered her face with a pillow. She was tired, hungover and very much distracted by Angela’s coat sticking to her body. Her face was growing red again.

“Is that really what I sound like?” Angela asked. She pitched her voice to sound way higher than it usually was. “I didn’t think I sounded _this_ annoying.”

“Stop it, you’re hurting my ears,” Fareeha muttered into her pillow. Angela laughed brightly.

“However much I’d like to keep chatting,” she said, moving around the apartment, “we should probably get going. If Winston wants us it might be serious.”

More serious than Italy? Than Tracer being left behind to fend for herself? Than Ana being back?

Fareeha’s features drew grim beneath the pillow.

“Right. Serious.” She sat up, each movement a confirmation that she would never touch alcohol again. Especially not if it came from the personal stores of a certain Swedish dwarf.

Angela had stripped out of the coat now. Her generous figure was shaded by the lamps’ warm light, glinting over her slightly wet curves. She was facing away from Fareeha and the sight of her naked body made something stir in the soldier’s chest. Fareeha swallowed as the doctor pulled on a black bra, the lace contrasted brilliantly against her skin.

“You’re staring again,” Angela commented, slipping into an elegant, white shirt.

“I’m just enjoying the view.”

Angela’s cheeks turned pink. “You can sight-see later when we’re no longer on call.”

“Is that a promise?” Fareeha said, the smile obvious in voice. Angela rolled her eyes.

“Now who’s being funny?”

Fareeha scooted down on the bed, looking on the floor for the underwear Angela had so effectively taken off her last night. She muffled a laugh, as she picked up the panties. Or rather, what remained of them.

Angela’s face turned from pink to red. Her hands went up to cover her mouth in embarrassment.

“Oh, God, I’m so sorry!” Her brows went up in shock as Fareeha presented the fabric, dangling it teasingly at the doctor. The panties were completely torn, elastic and cotton ripped cruelly apart. They looked like they’d had a fight with a pair of scissors.

“Thanks for that,” Fareeha said dryly, grabbing her jeans from the floor. Angela was still covering her face as Fareeha pulled them on. Her face was adorably red now.

“I’m sorry, I really didn’t mean to.”

Fareeha’s smile grew wider. Her headache lessened somewhat as she looked into the doctor’s big blue eyes, mortified by what her wanting fingers had done without her noticing. Angela lowered her hands from her face, looking down at the floor. She was smiling too, but it had a guilty twitch to it, as if she was mirroring Fareeha’s expression, but not feeling the comfort in it.

“… Angela.” Fareeha stepping closer to the doctor made the woman look up. Her hair was dark from water, her coat was tight against her damp skin. Fareeha hissed in air through her teeth and forced herself to look Angela in the eyes when she spoke. “I just… Thank you. For last night, it… it was really nice.”

It had been more than nice. It had been startling. Frightening. Hauntingly incredible. Fareeha thought of Angela’s slender fingers trailing her skin. The taste of her lips and the warmth of her body. A sudden chill ran through her and now she was the one who had to look down.

“It was nice?” Angela said, some of her old sharpness returning. Her shoulders stiffened under her coat.

Fareeha wanted to say something more. She had never been good with words and Angela’s distracting outfit didn’t exactly make the search for them easier. She opened her mouth, closed it, then opened it again. No sound came out. No words that could describe the desire, the _need_ Angela had woken in her.

Had Angela felt the same? There had been no doubt that she’d been willing in the moment, but now was different. It was naive to ignore the consequences it could have for them both if this got out. It was unprofessional. It was dangerous, even. If Pharah had ever found out two members of her squad engaged in anything beyond a friendship, she would have to consider throwing one of them off the team. In the field, there could be no distractions. In war, your focus had to be set and unwavering.

They had reacted upon immediate desire. Did Angela regret it now? Did Fareeha?

“Should--” Fareeha cleared her throat. “Should we… talk? Or something. I mean, what we did was…”

She felt like a dumb teenager standing there, Angela looking at her expectantly. Then the doctor smiled, like she’d done the night previous when she’d let Fareeha enter the apartment. When she’d listened to her and talked to her. When she’d made love to her.

Angela ran a hand along Fareeha’s arm.

“We don’t have to talk now,” she said. Her cheeks were still flushed pink. “Later. After the meeting.”

Fareeha nodded, mostly because she didn’t know what else to do.

“Yeah, alright.” She couldn’t quite describe the feeling rushing through her. Was it relief? Frustration? Shame, maybe?

Angela took Fareeha’s hand in hers. “And you need to talk to Ana.”

***

The meeting was short, which Pharah thought both to be a good and a bad thing. Thinking about her mother still enticed a feeling of anger and grief in her she wasn’t sure she could handle. Last night she had kept it at bay first with drink, then with Angela.

She had entered the conference room knowing she couldn’t keep up appearances. Knowing one look at Ana would send her into a fit. She’d felt it, like a flame licking at the back of her neck, her mother’s stare burning into her head. Pharah had almost left the room.

Then Angela’s hand had found hers under the table, squeezing it gently. She didn’t let it show, the doctor didn’t even look at Fareeha while she did it, keeping her eyes on Winston as he spoke about nothing in particular. But her touch helped. It was an anchor, making her strong in the storm Ana had created in her mind.

When Winston ended the meeting a slow mumble sprung up as people started talking to each other. After Italy and Sevilla, they all agreed that laying low was the best course of action and as such, there was little for them to do but get comfortable in their new home.

Pharah had stood to leave too, when Angela had stopped her.

“Don’t be afraid,” Angela whispered as the other agents streamed out of the room. “ _Talk_ to her.”

It was then Fareeha noticed her mother hadn’t moved from her position at the end of the table. Her jaw tightened.

“She--”

“Find me after,” Angela said, her voice still a whisper. “But you need to talk to her.”

Then she was gone, without another word, leaving Fareeha and her mother alone in the suddenly very quiet conference room.

Pharah had been in battles before in her life. She had experienced war and death firsthand. She had taken lives, she had saved them, led them. Situations where adrenaline spiked through her body and her breathing turned ragged from fear, when her heart turned into a deafening thump in her chest. None of that came close to the myriad of emotions rushing through her in this moment.

“Your hair is longer,” Ana said.

Pharah looked up. The glare she shot her was sharp with fury. Ana looked away.

“Yours is greyer,” Fareeha retorted through clenched teeth. She grabbed the back of one of the office chairs to steady herself as Ana grimaced at the comment. Her mother had never liked when Fareeha talked back to her.

“It is, yes.” Her shoulders slumped, her head lowered.

She had gotten old, Pharah realized. In her memories, Ana Amari was always splendid in her power. Strong and undoubtingly authoritarian. A wall, made to protect and shield those around her. But her defenses were crumbling. Time had made her withered and grey. Small.

“I didn’t want to see you with Overwatch.”

The small fraction of pity Fareeha had felt burned away. Her fingers dug into the chair’s upholstery.

“You don’t get to say that. You weren’t here.”

“I know. That doesn’t change my opinion.”

“Your _opinion?_ Are my choices really that shocking to you, _mother?”_ The word was like a curse. “You taught me to fight. To be strong. You let me be raised by heroes, by soldiers. You taught me that there is nothing more important in your life than protecting the ones you love. Are you really trying to act surprised?”

“It’s not the life I wanted for you.”

“To hell with what you want for me!” Pharah nearly turned the chair over. Tears were pressing behind her eyes and she spun, looking away from Ana. She would not let her see. She couldn’t let her see.

Pharah took in long breaths until she got herself under control. She kept silent until she was certain her voice wouldn’t crack.

“If you don’t have anything to say other than that you’re disappointed in my choices…”

“Disappointed?” The shock in Ana’s voice made Pharah turn around. She was staring at her daughter, one good eye wide with disbelief. “I wanted a better life for you, Fareeha. You didn’t understand the toll it takes on you. I made sure you didn’t know about that part of my job. I was supposed to keep people safe, that was my purpose, and to do that I had to kill more than you would think. The weight of it… you would never have understood.”

Ana stopped. Her voice had hitched at a memory or thought.

“I understand now.” Fareeha tried to keep her voice calm and failed. “You think I’m weaker than you.”

“That’s not true--”

“It is! You don’t think I can handle what you do. What you _did_. I was always a failure in your eyes, just because I wanted the same things you did.”

“Don’t say that.” Ana walked around the table, closer to Pharah. Pharah was taller than her mother. “Don’t you dare even think that!”

“What am I supposed to think then? You _killed_ yourself. I thought you were dead. We held a funeral for you.” The tears were coming now, but Pharah was too angry to stop them. “You would rather be dead than…”

The sentence died on her lips. How could she ever explain the turmoil roaring inside her? Angela had managed to put words to Pharah thoughts in a way that had nearly broken her into pieces, but she couldn’t manage to find them on her own.

“I…” Ana had raised a hand toward Pharah, but lowered it before she could make contact. “I never meant to hurt you. Ever.”

Pharah scoffed and swiped the tears from her face.

“I always did what was asked of me,” Ana continued softly. “I always tried my best - with you and with anyone. Until one day… I could not do what I needed to.”

She looked down, her posture growing frail and tired. “I hesitated. At the most crucial moment, I couldn’t pull the trigger. I could not do what was required of me. My friends… I was charged with keeping them safe. I knew them all, like they were my own family. And they died. Because of my mistake.”

Ana sank down on one of the chairs, sighing deeply. Her hand went up to touch her eyepatch. “I was left behind, gravely wounded. The pain… I thought I was dead. The rest of the world believed that too. I thought maybe that was for the best.”

“You ran.” It surprised Pharah that her statement wasn’t accusatory. Ana nodded.

“I’ve lost so much, Fareeha. So many. People I thought of as friends. I couldn’t bear to lose you too.”

“Yet, you came back. You answered the recall.”

She nodded solemnly. “Even with all I’ve lost I know that my part in this is yet to be over. There are still people who need to be protected, who Overwatch can save. That means I cannot stop fighting. Not as long as my heart is beating in my chest. Not while there are people still waiting for me.”

Pharah stared at her mother. She hadn’t changed. How was that possible? How could she still be the same Ana Amari from all those years ago? Even behind the grey hair and the wrinkled skin, she was the same. Determined and strong as iron. Her Eye was still hard against her skin, her gaze steadfast.

“You know, I used to dream about this when I was younger. To one day join Overwatch and fight alongside you.”

“Do you still want that?”

The silence between them grew heavy as Pharah narrowed her eyes. Ana sighed. “Wanting something better for you is all I ever dreamed of. If this is what you truly want… If Overwatch is what you have chosen, then that is your decision. One that I will choose to support.”

“I’m not ready to forgive you,” Fareeha said.

“I don’t expect you to be.”

“I might never be ready.”

Ana’s mouth twitched, but she nodded. “And I won’t hold it against you.”

There was little emotion to be found in her mother’s face. Sadness, yes. Resolve and stubbornness, but her whole demeanor seemed muted somehow. She was holding herself back, keeping her guard up.

Fareeha gave a curt nod and turned away from her mother. The ball of betrayal and resentment that had been in her chest when she’d entered the conference room had not disappeared, but it was smaller and less consuming now.

It was a start. Even if it wasn’t the best one.

 

* * *

 

Talon could be so cruelly efficient when they really wanted to. It was actually surprising. For an organization whose sole purpose seemed to be hoarding power like a dragon does gold, they tended to be so unprofessional that Sombra was surprised they ever got anything done.

It was no wonder Overwatch was considered a threat to them, even now when their numbers were basically a joke. Talon had them outgunned, outmanned and had more money to burn than Overwatch could have ever imagined. And yet, they were still losing.

Sombra kept quiet as a patrolman walked passed where she stood. He couldn’t see her behind her invisibility tech, but he could hear her. Not that he would have. The guard looked bored and tired. He fiddled absentmindedly with the strap on his rifle as he turned the corner, out of her line of sight.

“Open Sesame,” she whispered as she slid the keycard through the holding cell’s lock. Behind her, a wall-mounted camera turned statically from side to side, but she ignored it. She’d put it on a loop before she even entered the building.

The building wasn’t as imposing as she would have thought it’d be, but, then again, she had expected a Talon prison where waterboarding and loss of limbs were a part of everyday routine. That was not the case, however. No, this building seemed more like a halfway-house. A place to put prisoners until you knew what to do with them.

The door hissed as Sombra pushed it open and she drew in a sharp breath. The room was cold. Freezing even. Her breath stood as a small white cloud from her mouth, revealing her position, regardless of her invisibility.

It was like an icebox in here. The hard, stone wall clung almost white with frost, hot air from a small vent turning to steam the moment it entered the cell.

“Now, this is just poor taste,” she mused, turning off her invisibility, shimmering into view.

Sombra had heard mention of this specific “interrogation” tactic, but it didn’t make it feel any less on the nose. It felt more like a bad joke than it did actual torture, but she supposed trusting Talon to not make a complete fool of themselves was too much to ask.

The cell’s temperature had been lowered to the point of near lethality. It was an uncommon way of torture, not on par with the good old sleep deprivation and nail-pulling. The classics. The prisoner of the cell would have their shoes, socks and coat taken away and was left with only a small blanket to fight off the cold, which would sporadically grow rougher or gentler depending on the vital signs of the prisoner. Torture wasn’t meant to kill. Krone had called it a conversational lubricant once. Sombra grimaced.

The prisoner stirred from her position in the corner. The blanket she had been given was too small, barely able to reach around her shoulders. She was hard to recognize in the cold light of the cell. Her characteristic glasses had been taken away, as had the heavy wool coat she had been wearing when Talon first captured her. Krone must have been so proud of himself when he decided that this would be the proper way of torture. Freezing a climatologist to death? Talk about a bad joke.

“Who…” Mei-Ling Zhou began, but had to stop when a coughing fit raked through her body. It sounded wet and guttural. Sombra winced.

Sombra remembered the time after the Omnic Crisis. So many people left with nothing. Left with no one. Many had accepted their lot, growing content in a government appointed facility and trained into a clerk job for some daughter company of LumeriCo when they got to the legal working age. She had been among those refusing. She had found her own path using her own tools. She’d seen people like Mei on that road. People too weak to go on by themselves.

A small hint of guilt pinched her chest. Why was Mei here? Talon didn’t want her, clearly, they wanted the information she had. They wanted what was in her head, not her abilities and knowledge of the technology she had been investigating.

She was here because she was unlucky. If Sombra hadn’t been using Talon as her way of infiltrating the world’s network of power, Mei wouldn’t even be here. Her recall signal to the Athena system would not have been blocked and she would not have been captured while desperately trying to contact them.

Mei’s eyes flickered, trying to focus on her. They were red and bruised from lack of sleep and even without her glasses they looked bigger than usual. Her breath sounded as if she was drawing air through a wind chime, a reminder that a few days in a Talon prison cell had not done her any favors. She was sick from the cold, her eyes were glassy from fever, and those few hours where exhaustion overtook her were plagued by nightmares. She was cracking without even realizing it. The guilt grew stronger.

_No_. Sombra shook off the feeling before it had time to settle. This wasn’t her. She didn’t reminisce about the past, she didn’t get stuck in her own bad memories. Mei was a tool, like any other. She was going to use her to her advantage, like she’d used countless of other people before in her life. Sombra tilted her head at the climatologist. So small. How frail she looked. But it didn’t matter. She was a tile on her road to power. And tiles were meant to be stepped on.

“Oh, don’t mind me,” Sombra said, looking around the room for something to sit on. There were no chairs, but there was a small table next to the bed, empty save for an drinking cup. “I’m barely here, anyway.”

Mei narrowed her eyes, and Sombra had to admire her resolve. Even in this weak state, she hadn’t given them anything. Not a word, not even a whisper. Krone had obliged his higher-ups after Asti had nearly bitten his head off in that Italian conference room, and had postponed the staged rescue until a later date. To distract himself from this chink in the plan, he had taken it out on Mei, demanding answers she probably didn’t even have. Especially not in her current, feverish state.

“Who are you?” Mei said. Her blue lips quivered as she spoke.

“Let’s not go there,” Sombra said, purposefully making her voice sound exasperated. “I’m really not in the mood for the whole exposition thing. And you look as if you’re barely conscious anyway.”

Mei’s head lolled as she tried to bring Sombra into focus. She was going to say something, but a new series of violent coughs forced her to keep quiet.

“You don’t look too good,” Sombra commented mockingly. “I think you might be sick.”

Mei didn’t answer. Her coughing had weakened her and she shivered beneath her too small blanket. She looked up at Sombra, still not saying anything. Her huge, brown eyes were pleading her for… something. Relief? Aid? She was smart enough to know she was beyond those things.

“Please…” she said. “Just tell me…”

“I’m not usually inclined to give out information.” Sombra trailed a nail along the mortar lines on the wall. “Not without getting something in return.”

“Just tell me what--” Another bout of coughing, more violent this time. Sombra frowned as Mei’s fingers came away red. Her skin was white as snow.

This wasn’t normal. This was far beyond what was usually done to prisoners. Torture was supposed to cull them, make them pliable. This was different. Krone was taking it too far. He was growing too impatient.

Sombra shook off the feeling of unease. “Where are they, Mei?”

It surprised Sombra when Mei laughed hoarsely. It was wet and grimy. It made the hairs on Sombra’s neck stand.

“Who?” she said. Her smile had gone again.

“You tried to send them messages.”

Mei didn’t answer. She turned away, resting her forehead on the cool wall. She was sweating from fever, but shaking all the same.

“You people never understood,” she said finally. Her voice was slipping into sleep. “Talon just… you always do what you think is…”

“How were you supposed to get your location?”

Mei shook her head. Her eyes were closed tightly. “They’ll come for me. They come, it’s what they do.”

“They won’t come,” Sombra said cruelly. The woman was barely conscious. Sombra’s voice was a knife into her fever dreams, enhancing the fear in her delusional mind. “No one knows you were taken. No one knows you’re here.”

“When they know they’ll come.” Her head twitched and she reopened her eyes, but they weren’t seeing anything. “It’s cold here. It’s so cold here. I’m… I am alone. There should be others. Torres… Adams, where… why didn’t you wake up? Why did you leave me alone?”

Sombra sighed. Pointless. The woman was too far gone. She was lost to her own nightmares, haunted by the deaths of her former colleagues. _Maybe I should have come earlier,_ Sombra thought, but dismissed it almost immediately. She would have come, but Krone had had people in and out of Mei’s cell constantly after she’d arrived. This was the only time. And it had been useless.

“Why am I here? Where am I? I want to go home.” Mei started crying, her eyes still seeing nothing but the ghosts of her past. “Don’t leave me in the cold. I’m awake. I am awake, I should be awake. Find me. Find me, please, just don’t leave me here. They’ll come back. Come back for me.”

Sombra stopped. _Find me._

Was she that stupid? _They’ll come back_.

Was the solution really that obvious? _It’s what they do._

Feeling giddy about the revelation, and infuriated that she hadn’t thought of it earlier, she turned on her tech, slipping in to match the walls around her. She looked down at Mei. The scientist had stilled, but her head was still rolling from side to side, her lips mumbling incoherent words as she quivered.

She won’t last long in this cell. She won’t last more than a few more days with this treatment. Sombra wasn’t opposed to killing, she’d done it so many times by now that she’d lost count. There was nothing to it anymore. A pistol, a bullet. Done. But this wasn’t a fight. This wouldn’t be a simple kill.  

Sombra exited the cell, quickly locking the door behind her, and slipped down the hall. Behind her, the small screen on the wall flicked once, then shut off. The whirring of the cooling pipes died with a sigh and the warm air from the vent no longer turned to steam.

Inside, Mei took a shuddering breath. Her sleep settled, her movements calmed, as warm air began entering her lungs, ailing the frozen pain in her chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... I'm back. Kinda. 
> 
> I apologize for not updating this quicker. I should have and I wanted to, but things got in the way. I have a dozen excuses for why this is so late, and I can only say that (hopefully) the wait won't be this long again. 
> 
> It didn't help that this chapter was a pain to write. Dialog is hard, exciting dialog even more so, which is why a lot of the lines from the Pharah/Ana confrontation are directly quoted from their in-game interactions, as well as Blizzard promotional material. No one knows Ana better than them, and though it might be considered cheating I hope you'll bear with me. 
> 
> Also, WARNING about future chapters:  
> If you are triggered or know yourself to be affected by graphic depictions of violence and torture, I suggest stopping now. If everything goes as my mind wants, we'll all be needing a cold shower a few chapters from now. 
> 
> Please, leave comments for me to read and respond to. It helps out more than you can possibly know. 
> 
> Peace.


	9. Response

Despite the chaos surrounding the revitalization of Overwatch, Tracer could not stop smiling. Even though the intruding thoughts of Sombra and her lithe fingers against Tracer’s skin could still send her blood into a boil, the rage was always brief. She was simply too happy to be angry.

The days at Watchpoint Keros fell into a comfortable rhythm after she returned. After the disaster that was Sevilla and Italy, everyone agreed laying low was the best option. In the old days, Tracer would have hated it with a passion. She had never been good at staying in one place for too long. In her youth, she had bounded from university to university, until she finally found a certain amount of peace in the RAF, even though her idea of peace meant flying high-speed jets through the sky with little regard for her own safety.

The excitement of the new company helped. Tracer only carried fond, if strict, memories of Ana and seeing her again was an unexpected, but joyful surprise. Winston and Reinhardt was as she remembered, though she saw little of Winston, due to his new responsibilities of running Overwatch, and Reinhardt barely left Ana’s side.

Thinking about it, the newly instated agents always seemed to have something to do. Winston was working through plans with Athena, Reinhardt and Ana reminisced about the old days. Torbjörn had his turrets. Even Angela and Pharah were always off somewhere.

Tracer couldn’t blame Pharah for the reaction she’d had the day Ana showed up. All things considered, she had handled it well, though she spent an awful lot of time with the good doctor. It hadn’t seemed like the two were close at all when they’d seen each other in Sevilla, but over the few days since Ana’s return Tracer’s suspicion had grown into a scheme.

She’d seen them talking in hushed voices, had seen Angela hold Pharah’s hand when they thought no one was looking, but Tracer had just assumed the soldier was finding support wherever she could. Mercy had always been more than willing to provide a shoulder to cry on, and had a unique gift that allowed her to know when she got too close to someone’s centre. As a doctor, she knew more about the members of Overwatch than anyone. Everything from their medical history to their psych evaluations. That kind of knowledge would lay heavy on anyone, but Angela carried it without complaint.

But that was not the reason behind the two women’s frequent meetings. A few days past, when Tracer had been out running, she had slipped and cut her hand on a rock. Though it didn’t seem serious it still stung when she got back to the Watchpoint. She had gone to the medbay, not expecting anyone to be there, and had entered to find the two women in a warm embrace, foreheads touching intimately. Pharah, upon seeing Tracer entering, stepped very quickly away from Angela. They had looked at each other, startled, before Angela had noticed the blood on Tracer’s hand.

While Mercy’s professionalism kept her face calm, Pharah’s was most certainly not. It had turned red as wine and her eyes were comically wide as she glared at Tracer’s grinning face.

That was days ago and Pharah still stared at her when they met in the halls. She took every opportunity she could to avoid being alone with Tracer, even to the point of excusing herself and nearly running from the room.

At first, she had found it cute. The big, brutish captain blushing like a schoolgirl with nothing more than a look. Mercy ignored it, content at treating Tracer like she always had, but Pharah was visibly uncomfortable whenever she and Tracer happened to be in the same room.

It wasn’t until a night when Tracer entered the Watchpoint’s gym that it started to bother her. Pharah was vigorous in her training and would often spend long hours with weights and on runs to keep herself fit. They all kept pretty consistent work-out schedules, but no one as reliably as Pharah, so Tracer wasn’t surprised to find the woman stretching in the gym when she entered. The lack of sweat on her skin showed she had not been at it long, as did the fact that she was still doing her warm-up exercises.

“Evening, luv,” Tracer said cheerily as she entered. Pharah spun, cheeks immediately flushing bright.

“Tra-- I mean, Lena. I didn’t know you’d be here.”

“Well, just ‘cause we have no work is no excuse to be lazy.”

She ignored the obvious uncomfortableness on Pharah’s face and started unclasping her accelerator. As long as it was in the same room as her she would be fine, and she hated working out with it weighing her down.

“I was just going to--” Pharah stood and gestured at nowhere in particular. “I’ll leave you to it.”

Tracer’s eyebrows knitted together. “What?”

When Pharah didn’t answer, Tracer crossed her arms and looked up at the soldier. She was comically tall next to Tracer. “You barely worked up a sweat. Am I that bad company? Or do you have someone better waiting for you?”

She regretted the comment immediately when she saw Pharah’s face contort into a grimace. Tracer sighed. “Sorry, that was not fair. Look, just pretend I’m not here. I’ll mind me, you mind you, yeah?”

Tracer bent to touch her toes, but she could feel Pharah’s eyes resting on her. Unspoken words made the air feel thick.

“You’re staring at me. Is my form off or something?”

Pharah cleared her throat. “What you saw between… You didn’t… Did you tell anyone?”

“Who would I tell?”

“I thought you might talk to Winston.”

Tracer shrugged, her stretch making it awkward. “Don’t rightly see how it’s any of his business. Who you shag up with is your deal.”

“Don’t say--!” Pharah lowered her voice into a hissing whisper. “Don’t say things like that.”

“What do you think will happen if anyone overhear us? Who are they going to report you to?” Tracer began rolling her arms in circles to get the blood flowing. “We are off the grid, remember? No one knows we are doing this. At least, no one that can stop us, that is. If the thing you two have… whatever it is, if it makes you happy then go for it, I say.”

Pharah’s normal, hard facade fell into place. The ever-stern captain. “You speak as if you have experience.”

Tracer sighed, smiling teasingly. “I never took it further than a physical with the doc, if that’s what you are asking. Though, from the rage building in your eyes I can tell that jokes aren’t appropriate right now. There was someone, yes. Before the disbandment.”

The hurt must have been obvious on her face. The anger in Pharah’s eyes stilled. “I didn’t know. Who?”

“Her name was Emily.” Tracer shook her head at the memory. “I don’t want to talk about her, if you don’t mind.”

Pharah just nodded. She looked thoughtful. It was obvious she wanted to ask something else, but Tracer was too impatient to let her take her time.

“You do realize that if you ever hurt Angie I’m going to have to kill you?”

Pharah laughed brightly before she could contain herself. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Good. She cares too much about people. She wants to help everyone so badly that sometimes she forgets herself in the process. Try to remind her, will ya?”

“I know. She helped me after Ana got here. I wasn’t dealing with it very well.”

“I don’t think anyone could deal with that well. How do you react to someone coming back from the dead?” Tracer cursed her blabbermouth. “Sorry.”

Pharah just shook her head. “I’m coming to terms with it. Slowly, but I’ll get there. Angela is helping me though it.”

There was a change in Pharah’s features when she mentioned Angela. Her shoulders relaxed, her lips quirked into a smile. Her hard, brown eyes lost some of their characteristic steel. Tracer frowned.

“You like her, don’t you?”

There was a pause. Pharah was tensing again, but she didn’t move away. Her face was calm, despite the uncertainty flickering in her eyes.

“I think so.”

“You _think_ so?”

“With everything that’s happened… I just don’t know. She’s not like anyone I’ve ever met before. Maybe I’m just using her, without knowing it. Besides, even if I did _like_ her, nothing could ever come of it. We’re colleagues. It’s unprofessional.”

There was a brief pause before Tracer started giggling. Her small body shook as waves of laughter rolled through her, to Pharah’s obvious disapproval.

“You weren’t here when Overwatch was still running,” Tracer said when she caught her breath. “It got so clammy sometimes it felt like living in a soap opera.”

“Really?”

“Really. If that’s your concern, you’ll be fine.”

Pharah didn’t look convinced, and Tracer could see the faults in her own explanation. Back then, Overwatch had had dozens of Watchpoints all over the world and agents would hop between them rather sporadically most of the time. Encounters, as well as relationships, were naturally brief as a result. This wasn’t the case here. Keros was their only base of operations and the people currently present were the only agents they had. If things got ugly between even just two of them, it would affect the entire team. Pharah’s concerns were not unwarranted.

Then, Athena’s crisp voice suddenly echoed over the gym speakers.

_“All agents to the conference room. I repeat, all agents to the conference room.”_

 

* * *

 

“Stay quiet.” Winston’s deep voice rumbled in the silence as they eased forward across the rooftops. Mercy’s wings were finally fulfilling their purpose as she glided swiftly after her two squad mates. Fareeha used her thrusters sparingly, like Winston, as to not give away their location. They were coming close to their desired position.

“Turrets are up,” Torbjörn’s voice crackled over the comm.

“Ana?” Winston said.

“In my nest. Have a clear view of the drop zone.”

Mercy frowned. After Ana’s arrival, she and Torbjörn had gotten a closer look at the rifle the older woman carried. Mercy had wanted to since she’d first lain eyes on it, and her suspicion had been confirmed seconds into the inspection. Torbjörn, too, had been surprised.

“This is one of my prototypes!”

Ana had looked slightly ashamed at that.

“Yes, I… I may have lifted it from one of your old stores.”

Mercy hadn’t said anything at first, the anger building in her chest had been too great. Ana had noticed, however. She had more experience than any of them. She could always tell when something was wrong with someone under her charge.

“Angela, what is it?”

“This is… _perverse_ ,” she said, clasping the rifle as if to break it. “I agreed different biotic delivery mechanisms should be developed _only_ to help save the lives of those in need of aid. This is… Torbjörn, why did you build this?”

“It was a concept, nothing more. I knew how you’d feel, so I boxed it.”

Mercy had sent Ana a glare. Once, the respect she’d felt for the woman had been undoubting. That was not the case any longer.

“You stole it. Stole something that was never meant to be created.”

 Ana had not said anything in her defense, but had not given up the weapon either. She claimed that she used the weapon for good, but Mercy had her doubts. There was so much power resting in the barrel of a sniper rifle.

Winston pausing on the edge of a building brought her back to the present. He nodded at Ana’s response.

“Good. We are nearly on top of them. Tracer?”

Tracer’s voice sounded quietly. “Sitting pretty, as instructed. Give the signal and they’ll have me in their flanks in seconds.”

“Good work. Take your positions. Pharah, Mercy. Go three blocks further down, I’ll hold here. The guard shift is almost over; I’ll drop on them before they rotate. That’s when you come in. Torbjörn, you ready with the grounded assistance?”

“Ready,” the man said.

Pharah and Mercy continued down a few houses, as instructed, Mercy gliding behind Fareeha as the soldier moved slowly through the night air. Whenever the two of them crossed the space between the buildings, Mercy felt her stomach drop slightly. She always felt this way before a fight, before her brain turned mechanical and she was unable to feel the fear now clutching her bones. But she felt it worse than usual. Worse than ever.

She’d been in the middle of some paperwork when she’d been called to the conference room. She arrived as one of the last, only overtaking Fareeha and Lena jogging up in their gym clothes. For a moment, Angela had been thoroughly distracted by the tightness of Pharah’s outfit. But only for a moment.

Athena had received a distress signal from a small station in Spain, one matching Mei-Ling Zhou’s response tag. It had been enough to turn everyone in the room silent. Mercy had wondered why Mei had not gotten back to them. When had she been captured? By who? For how long? The questions hurt to even think about.

Winston had mounted a plan remarkably quickly. Under the cover of nightfall, they would sneak as close to the station as they dared, fall in in a surprise attack and extract their stolen agent. Athena’s research stated that the station was undermanned. Scans of the area told them the same thing. The Overwatch agents we’re still outnumbered, but they had the element of surprise, the cover of night and the initiative of the first move.

It didn’t stop Angela from feeling sick to her stomach.

“You seem nervous,” Fareeha said, scouting down over the streets that would soon make their battlefield. Her voice was harder than usual.

“I’m terrified,” Mercy admitted. She eyed the other woman. “Aren’t you?”

“I can’t be. I can’t afford to be.”

Angela laughed softly. “If it was only that simple.”

Fareeha smiled too, but kept her gaze on the point of attack. “You think too much.”

“Maybe you think too little.”

“Ana used to say that too. Said I was too rash, that I never thought things through. Someday it would get me in trouble.” Angela wasn’t sure, but she could have sworn Pharah blushed under her visor. “We’ll get Zhou out. We’ll get her out and take her away from this horrible place. I won’t let anything happen to any of us.”

Mercy didn’t mention the fact that they had no idea how long Mei had been in their custody. They had no idea if she was even alive, but Pharah’s jaw was set. Angela remembered the look on her face when they’d left Tracer behind in Sevilla. The disgust and shame in her eyes. Mercy clutched her staff tighter.

“Keep the skies clear for us.”

Pharah nodded curtly, her lips mouthing something Mercy couldn’t quite make out.

 

* * *

 

Tracer felt giddy nervousness roll through her veins as she sat crouched in a shadowed alleyway next to the prison. Her accelerator hummed and let out a feint shine in the darkness, but she ignored it. They wouldn’t see her. Not until she was on top of them.

She saw Winston edge his way forward on one of the nearby buildings. His silhouette was near invisible against the grey sky. The city was basked in lights, of course, but none of them reached above street level, meaning that anyone traversing the roofs would be nigh invisible. She smiled. It was time.

Waiting for the signal had always been difficult for her. It had always been her biggest flaw. She rushed too much, grew too impatient with herself. Speed was her everything. If she couldn’t move, couldn’t act, she was helpless.

She closed her eyes, feeling the night grow still around her. The moment before the storm broke. The serenity that would soon be shattered by a choir of gunfire. How she’d longed for this. How she’d _missed_ this!

Winston’s launch onto the guards on the ground was swift and deadly. They never saw him coming, not expecting an attack of such ferocity to come from above.

The second the scientist touched the ground he deployed the shield generator, letting a bubble shield spring up around him, and turning towards the entrance where the remaining force were now staring them down. Before they even had time to raise their weapons, Torbjörn’s turrets sprang into action, raining a hail of bullets over the front of the building. Those few not caught in the turretfire began darting for cover, only do find shrapnel and explosions coming from Pharah’s rockets. She looked angelic soaring in the sky, blue and golden energy from Mercy’s Caduceus staff glinting over her armor.

Winston’s voice broke through the chaos.

“Tracer, now!”

She obeyed.

Zipping out from her hiding place, a trail of blue light following her wake. Her pistols whirred, spun and fired as she darted her way to the front of the prison. She knew the plan. She knew what her task was.

Tracer more sensed than saw Winston and Torbjörn follow her inside. Her speed allowed her to run ahead and take out any opposition that they might encounter, while Winston protected their backside. Outside, Ana, Pharah and Mercy, aided by the still intact turrets, would rain hell on the forces still grouped at the building’s front. Right now, the three of them inside the prison were in the most dangerous position. They didn’t know the exact number of soldiers in the facility. They didn’t know the exact security measures. They knew they were outmanned. And they knew the location of Mei’s cell.

“Here,” Torbjörn said after a few moments of running, reaching a heavy door with blue stripes on it. A fried security camera hung limply from the wall, but before Tracer could think anything of it, sparks from the dwarf’s blowtorch made her flinch away. Even with her goggles.

“ _Hostiles incoming,”_ Athena’s cool voice informed them. “ _I advise you to hurry_.”

“I advise the same,” Tracer said sharply, ducking behind a corner when the soldiers the AI had mentioned started shooting at them from further down one of the halls. The door to Mei’s cell was tucked behind a twist in the hallway, giving them just enough cover that the oncoming soldiers didn’t rip them to pieces. “Mind hurrying it up, Torb?”

“Mind letting a man work in peace?” he muttered, torch trailing down the side of the door. It only took a few seconds before the metal bent inward, falling to the ground with a loud _bang_.

With surprising agility, Torbjörn ducked through the door, disappearing into the cell. In the meanwhile, Winston had managed to get another shield set up for them, letting Tracer peak fire at their assailants.

“Can you clear them out?” Winston asked, yelling over the sound of the rattling guns.

“Not yet!” she said. “I need to know. Mei, is she--”

A boom loud enough to shatter eardrums sounded as a grenade connected with the shield, sending pulsing ripples through the energy wall. A loud ringing pierced her ears, painful spikes twisting as her communicator crackled and died. In a single blink, the world turned blurry and disjointed around her, and it took her a moment to realize the visor in her goggles had splintered.

“Got her!” Torbjörn’s voice sounded muted, like it was under water. Tracer had to blink him into focus when he exited the cell. She nearly smiled when she saw the woman he was dragging out, until she realized her eyes were closed and she was lying completely still. Mei’s face was grey and gaunt, black bruises framing her big, lovely eyes.

“Is she...?”

“She’s unconscious. I can’t carry her.” Torbjörn lay her down on the floor, reaching for his gun. Winston didn’t hesitate and hoisted the fellow scientist up from the ground, nestling her against his chest.

“Tracer, clear the way.”

Though there was still ringing in her ears and her vision was obscured from the fractures in her goggles, though she was covered in dust and aches and feeling both worried and frightened, Tracer grinned. “With pleasure.”

Dancing around the corner in quick, ferocious elegance, she unclasped the pulse bomb fastened on her back and set it armed. Using her speed, her time-defying speed, she was amid their attackers in less than a second, letting the bomb fall to the ground at their feet. Hardly had she let go before she felt the world spinning around her. The walls retracted, her legs moved backwards, yet the soldiers in front of her continued to move in their time, screams of fear and panic shining over their faces. Then she was still again, standing between Winston and Torbjörn, just in time to hear the roar when her bomb went off.

 

* * *

 

When Mercy heard the explosion, her immediate feeling was fear. She’d heard the crumbling of rubble too many times in her life to not feel a surge of panic run through her body whenever she heard the boom of a planted bomb. She’d seen too many innocents trapped under fallen debris, failed too many victims crushed under ruined walls.

It was all she could do to keep herself airborne, until she saw the three agents exit the compound. Torbjörn was at the back, firing wild bullets at anything that dared move, while Tracer looked to be fiddling with the strap on her goggles. Mercy led out a deep sigh of relief.

“We have Zhou. Athena, get us out of here.” Winston’s voice was tired as it played on the comms, but he sounded pleased.

“ _Affirmative.”_ Athena’s mechanical voice was soothing in the confusion. “ _Group at meeting point B for extraction._ ”

Mercy felt a wave of relief wash over her. They’d done it. They had actually done it. Her friends were safe, unharmed despite the chaos. Even in the storm of bullets and fire they were alright. The mission had been a success.

Pharah boosted forward the air, letting Mercy soar with her in the night sky. Her wings splayed in golden victory, the light from her staff glittered like colored stars. Should she have doubted? They were Overwatch. They were made to protect the world from those seeking to harm it. Their cause was as just as any. How could they ever fail?

Then Mercy felt ice running down her spine. Athena was speaking again.

_“Additional hostiles inbound, southward! Several heat signatures detected. Moving at speeds consistent with an on-land hovercraft, model Cheetah 2047-9001…”_

The rest drowned out.

Pharah turned, preparing to launch a volley of rockets at the oncoming forces, but she never got the chance. A bullet, maybe it was luck, maybe it was skill, struck her Raptora suit in one of its wings. Whirring, loud and dreadful to Mercy’s ears, followed, as Pharah lost control of her boosters and started falling. Her descent was controlled, but only barely and when she landed, it was more of a crash than a fall.

Now a sitting duck, Mercy folded her wings and let herself drop onto a nearby roof, feeling pain where rocks drilled into her suit. From here, she had a clearer view of the scene below, of the newly arrived soldiers marching out in full armor and of her friends desperately trying to retreat to safety.

The dropship Winston had called for was visible now, preparing to land. Its outer shields glimmered as the bullets pelting it were absorbed, but they would never be able to completely take down the craft’s protection.

Ana, who had been sniping from a faraway tower, was already near the ship and witnessed her daughter’s fall from the sky. Without hesitation, she threw her rifle inside the aircraft, setting off in a mad sprint to get to Pharah, who was trying to get to her feet. Mercy couldn’t tell what state Pharah was in, only that she was able to stand and waddle as Ana began guiding her towards the ship.

The others were inbound too. Winston was nearly there, carrying a small figure in his arms. Mercy felt a slight warmth in her chest. _Mei._

Behind him was Torbjörn, gesturing and screaming something wildly. Mercy frowned. Why was he--?

She froze.

Several paces behind them, Tracer was struggling with something on her face. Her hands clawed at her eyes, at her ears, and she seemed completely oblivious to what was happening around her. Her face was contorted in frustration, not noticing that the others were getting further away, whilst the oncoming soldiers were getting closer.

Why wasn’t she running? What was she doing? Mercy never got her answer.

She saw one of the soldiers reel his arm back, saw a small black circle fly through the air. The arc was smooth and elegant. There was cold precision behind that throw. He knew where it would land, and he knew what damage it would cause when it did. And more importantly, Mercy knew as well.

In these situations, thinking wasn’t an option. Acting was the only thing she could do. There was no room for thought, no time to come up with a plan. She could only respond. Mercy threw herself off the roof.

She opened her wings as far as they would go, streamlining them to make her descent swifter. Her hands were reaching out towards Lena, Lena the young, innocent woman who had lost more than most people could survive. Lena, now blissfully blind to the danger she was in. To the oncoming grenade gliding towards her position.

 _You think too much_.

Mercy didn’t think now. There was no time, no point. There was just a girl and her. Just Lena and Angela. Just a few meters. Feet. _Inches_.

 The moment before Mercy collided with Tracer she halted her fall, but their contact was still a crash. Mercy’s speed sent them flying, rolling in a ball of white and orange. The world spun. The sky shifted. Brief silence.

Then darkness was cancelled by bright, fiery light. A deafening boom made her ears sing and she heard nothing. Saw nothing. Felt nothing. Nothing except a brief, intense pain. Tracer landed heavily on the ground next to her. Mercy heard a feint cry. She tasted blood.

Everything went dark.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... I'm not dead?
> 
> I have hundreds of reasons why this hasn't been updated. Hundreds of reasons that can all fall into the category of "life punched me directly in the face".
> 
> I don't know how consistent these updates will be. This story is becoming harder and harder to write and I don't know if I can continue. I will try. But it will take time.
> 
> In the meanwhile, leave me a comment saying what you think or give me a prompt that you'd like me to write. It can be anything Overwatch related, since that is the only fandom I am well versed in (I am an Ao3 scrub)
> 
> If you are still reading this story I give you my most genuine thank you - from the bottom of my heart. If you are a new reader, I give you just as much love and thanks and welcome you to this rollercoaster of emotion I have started. No one is safe and everyone will cry.
> 
> Thank you all. Hate to keep you waiting.
> 
> Peace.


	10. Fire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING. This chapter contains graphic descriptions of violence and torture.

The cell was of quality make, Tracer had to admit. Sleek grey walls, no windows, no bumps or holes. The door was cast-iron steel and impenetrable. Only a small hatch at eye height offered any connection to the outside, when not counting the rail thin ventilation output running along the ceiling.

Though the cell was quite large, the space offered felt more suffocating than freeing. The room was long and sparsely decorated. She had a bed and a table - nothing else. The complete lack of décor made it look as if the room was stretching itself out, growing longer than it actually was. It reminded her of a cell in an insane asylum. One designed to keep the occupant sedated and incapable of hurting themselves.

Everything in the cell was so clean it hurt her eyes whenever she woke up. She had no real feeling of time or how it passed, which in itself was disconcerting. For so long she had become used to feeling the pull of time around her with every breath she took. The anchor keeping her present was under her control, offering a glimpse into aspects of the future and of the past. But in her cell, she didn’t know. She had no clock. She had no translocator. And before today, she only had the clean walls smothering around her.

Tracer had not recognized the man who’d entered her cell in what she assumed was the early hours of the morning. She had been sleeping deeply, as she tended to do, when he’d entered, holding a bucket of icy water. Without saying a word, he had pulled her from the bed and plunged her head into the bucket of cold ice.

She’d fought and clawed at his arm, but her struggles didn’t faze him. He just held her down, the biting cold gnawing into her skin and painful fire igniting in her chest, as her body rapidly ran out of air.

It wasn’t until her desperate need for oxygen made her mouth open up and suck in a mouthful of water that her captor finally let her go. She pushed herself away from him, coughing up water and the remnants of food still left in her stomach. Her throat burned, her eyes stung. She tried standing and failed. She tried crawling away, but her arms where shaking too much.

“Who are you?” His voice was deep. Dark.

She tried forcing a cocky smile, but her coughing was not seizing, convulsing through her body in painful waves as she heaved in blessed clean air. Each breath was burning hot. It felt as if someone had filled her chest with molten iron.

 The blow came fast and hard. Tracer’s gaze was still blurry and unfocused, so she had no time to react to the assault. The fist connected with her cheek, and though it was numbed from the ice, it stung enough that she groaned.

“What is your name?” His voice was unchanged. Completely even, as if he hadn’t just punched her in the face.

She ignored him, turning away. She knew she couldn’t acknowledge him. If she did, he would have her. She’d been trained for scenarios like this, though they’d hoped she’d never have to use what she learned.

The next blow was to her side. He reeled back and kicked her in the ribs hard enough that she was pushed back a few inches. Tracer bit herself on the inside of her cheek, tasting blood and pain from her own actions, but keeping her lips tightly sealed. The scream she would have made when his military boot made contact with her torso was replaced by a sharp intake of breath, a breath that burned her damaged larynx.

The man crouched down next to her and she blinked him into focus. It took a moment, but eventually his features came into view. Tracer paused. His face was not gruff or scarred like she would have expected. There was no tan on his skin, marking recent military service, nor did his clothing carry any insignia or markings. He looked… normal. Horribly normal. Like a father you’d see play football in the park with his kids, or hosting barbeque parties in the summer while sipping on a not quite cold beer. Ordinary. For some reason that made everything much worse.

“How old are you?”

His questions were so simple, his face so calm, that she almost answered. His face was so _not_ threatening it was hard connecting it to the beating he’d just put her through.

Tracer looked up at him, determined to not let her fear show. She stared at his blank expression, forcing every ounce of fury she held within her into her gaze. She glared, hoping against hope he would accept that she wouldn’t talk and leave the room.

He didn’t.

He punched her again, then asked a question. Then kicked her and asked another. It went on and on, the assault leading to Tracer crawling along the walls of the cell, leaving smidgens of red on the clean, grey stone.

At first she proved resilient enough to look at him as he hit her, but even that proved too hard. What he was doing was textbook, and she knew it. He would hit her, _punish_ her for not answering his questions. There lay an implicit promise in every blow, in every bruise, that the pain would stop if she would just start talking. She clenched her teeth together to keep herself from doing so. Her bleeding cheek coloured her teeth scarlet and she spat out blood as a result.

She tried to defend herself with no luck. She was weak from lack of proper food, and he was much bigger and stronger than she was. She stood no chance against him, especially not when her ribs ached whenever she tried to take a breath.

It seemed to last hours. After a while, her prison jumpsuit, as dull and pristine as the walls, was covered in sweat and blood. The floor sprinkled with crimson from Tracer’s mouth, her skin was reddening from where this strange man hit her.

Then someone spoke and the man turned. Tracer didn’t catch the exchange. Her body was tightening, readying itself for another blow that never came. The man didn’t speak. He just nodded and left the room. He didn’t even turn to look at her. As if he didn’t even care.

As the door closed behind him, Tracer turned slowly, feeling every bruise and wound inflicted on her body. It was bad now. It would be worse later, when the adrenaline pumping through her system seized numbing her senses. She breathed heavily, feeling her ribcage protest. They were bruised badly. Maybe even broken.

She forced herself into a sitting position, leaning against the wall. Her heart thumped away in her chest, faster than it should. She knew why. It was basic really. Fear.

Fear that this was just the beginning.

* * *

 

“You’re telling me you have nothing?” Asti was marching back and forth in the office. Her usually pristine nails were gnawed down to stubs. “What kind of information specialist are you that you can’t dig up dirt on one, blasted girl!”

“The best kind,” Sombra snarled, flashing her teeth at the well-dressed woman. “Give me a reason to show you. I’m sure there are ways to prove my expertise. Things better left in the dark, Mrs. Asti.”

“Are you threatening me?”

“Is it that obvious?”

“Be quiet,” Krone said sharply. “Your bickering gets us nowhere.”

“If she would just do her job--”

“She is, Marzia.”

Sombra raised an eyebrow. It was not like Krone to come to her defense like this. She narrowed her eyes at his turned back, as he continued. “Sombra provided valuable, if not _crucial_ information about Dr. Ziegler’s past.”

“Crucial!?” Asti said. “Ziegler has said nothing. _Less_ than nothing, I’ve seen the footage. She just sits there, as if she was made of stone. Oxton, at least, reacts to our interrogation.”

Sombra sucked in air through her teeth. She had seen the security footage from both Tracer and Mercy’s cells. She had seen the charismatic man who’d entered the doctor’s cell, talking to her in a low, kind voice. He’d talked of her parents, of her old colleagues, several children Mercy had helped save during her time with Overwatch. None of it had rattled her. Neither had the torture following the sweet words.

Tracer had been a different matter. They knew nothing about her they could use to their advantage. Her past was laid out for all to see, with nothing and, more importantly, _no one_ to hide. To Talon’s knowledge, she had no family, no real friends. Nothing they could use to loosen her tongue.

But Sombra wasn’t Talon.

She was the best for a reason. She knew where to dig. She knew where people hid what they were most desperate to keep from the world. It had taken effort, surprising amounts of effort, but in the end, she’d found it all. Photographs, audio messages, medical bills, death certificate. Everything.

When Sombra had first seen the interrogator enter Tracer’s cell, she had looked away briefly. Once she realized what she was doing she had forced her eyes back on the holovid, ignoring the pestering voice in the back of her mind telling her that she didn’t want to see this happen. As she attempted to suppress it, another voice popped up. One saying that what Sombra wanted, the information she needed, was within arm’s reach, if she would just use the info her talents had provided her. All she would have to do, was hand over what she knew to Talon. But she wasn’t that big of an idiot.

By sharing, she would have what she needed in hours. The information she wanted would be presented to her on a silver plate to use however she wanted. But Talon would have it too. And where was the value in that?

No, it was better to wait. She could afford to wait. Tracer wouldn’t talk in her current state, even with the torture they put her through. Even to stop the pain, she wouldn’t talk. Sombra swallowed.

She knew Tracer was not like Ziegler, branded by a history of numerous losses and suffering. Lena was as tough as anyone, but even the toughest could be broken if you knew where to push. And Sombra had figured out where to push. Doing so was another matter, entirely.

“It’s obvious what Tracer is. It always has been. Surprisingly enough, not everyone leads as interesting or shadowed of a life as you, _amiga._ ”

Asti’s gaze turned lethal and Sombra shot her a wolfish grin. Asti ought to get some credit for how well she’d taken Krone being in control. Asti despised Krone to the point where her loathing towards him could be sensed in the air whenever they were in the same room. The fact that she let him do his planning with so little involvement from her side showed how far she was willing to go to get answers. Sombra could respect that.

That her control was slipping now was mostly Sombra’s fault, Sombra knew this, but what was the point of it all if you couldn’t have a little fun?

“So what then? More of this torture?” Asti asked.

“It wouldn’t work,” Krone said, his voice calm. “Oxton survived time displacement for months. I’ve read her psych reports. I suspect breaking her arm will have about as much effect on her as a gentle slap would a brick wall.”

“Then what do you suggest we do?” Asti’s voice was growing shrill. “The board has been more lenient with you than I would ever be, but even their patience will run dry. They demand results. They want answers.”

“Please. Don’t make this about the board. You know as well as I this is about you saving your own ass.”

“My ass wouldn’t need saving if you hadn’t cocked up as horribly as you did.”

“It was minor losses.”

“Minor losses!?” Asti’s eyes went comically wide. “Nine dead agents, over twenty wounded. A secure facility left in ruins. News outlets sticking cameras in any pile of rubble with even a _scent_ of Talon on it. The absolute _shitshow_ the media is putting on, which I am desperately trying to spin into something that’s not a complete disaster. How do you dismiss these as only minor losses?”

“It was worth it, Marzia.”

“Was it? Tell me, what did we get then? Information? Neither Oxton or Ziegler would help a dying child if doing so would somehow aid Talon efforts. Their technology? I suppose the Slipstream tech would be useful for our future endeavors. Just too bad that the plans, blueprints and any knowledge surrounding the goddamn thing exists solely in the brain of a fucking moon-monkey.” Sombra caressed her translocator, as Asti kept talking. “Capturing Dr. Ziegler would truly have been worth close to any price. Except her Valkyrie suit was destroyed in the raid, just as her Caduceus staff was. Now we just have a very angry, very _silent_ German staring holes into one of our cell floors. So, tell me again, Krone. How exactly was any of this _worth it_ in your eyes?”

“Are you going to keep bitching about our problems, or are you actually going to come up with a solution? Because if you’re just going to keep nagging me, I’m afraid I’m gonna need you to get the fuck out of my office.”

Krone’s voice had remained calm all throughout the conversation. He was normally so hot-headed, so prone to passionate outbursts. This change in him was uncanny.

Sombra pursed her lips, playing disinterest, but in reality she was examining her supposed superior intently. He usually carried himself with the demeanor and self-respect of a small child, so much so that Sombra was questioning how he’d ever got into the position he currently held. How did a whiny manbaby ever seize control over an entire national branch of one of the most powerful organizations in the world?

That had been Krone a week ago. But this Krone was different. And the fact that she couldn’t tell how concerned her.

Asti let out a loud groan of frustration. Her heels thumped softly against the office’s dark carpet.

“And you’re sure there’s nothing in Oxton’s profile that can be useful?”

Sombra shrugged. “She has an unpaid speeding ticket. Want to shove it in her face?”

“You little--”

The doors slammed open, interrupting Asti’s insult, and they all turned to look at the intruder. Krone spun, mouth already open in preparation to tell whoever had just entered to get out, when he stopped.

Reaper had entered the office.

His presence was imposing, even when he was just standing frozen in the doorway. His breathing always labored, raspy behind his mask. It was the only notion that the being beneath the robes was actually alive. Otherwise he was silent as death. He didn’t speak, didn’t move. He just… stood.

“Now is not a good time, Reaper,” Krone said. “We are conversing over--”

The specter flew through the room so fast Sombra found herself reaching for her translocator purely on instinct. She wouldn’t have had time to do much had she been Reaper’s intended target. Krone had even less of a chance.

The black, ghostly man solidified only inches from Krone’s pale face. Reaper’s frame blurred in angry twitches, stretching outward like claws. When he spoke, his voice was like gravel over ice.

“I… want… her… now.”

Krone looked away, sweat pearling on his brow. “Not yet.”

Reaper’s iron claws dug into the front of Krone’s suit, as the creature lifted the businessman off the ground ever so slightly, bringing him closer to the boney whiteness of his mask.

“She was promised to _me_.”

“And you will get her,” Krone said, voice only shaking slightly. “But not yet. We need her. We need to know where Overwatch’s base is.”

“You have the other one for that.”

Sombra felt an unfamiliar sting in her chest at that comment, but she pushed it aside, blaming it on fear kicking her senses into overdrive.

“I need both for my plan.”

“What plan?”

And then Krone told him. He told Reaper every slimy, gory, horrifying detail. Every step of a plan so calculated that Sombra was certain this was not the first time he’d employed it.

She had asked herself many times why Krone of all people had been put in charge of the Spanish HQ. Why this brash, underqualified, weasel of a man had been given so much power. The answer was clearer now.

“I know what I’m doing,” Krone said, after his explanation was done. “I can make her talk; I know I can. But I need both of them. And I need you to do what I say.”

Reaper was still as stone. His muscles were locked in place, just like a statue’s, for so long Sombra started wondering if he’d even heard anything that had been said. He stood there for a long moment before letting Krone go.

The young man’s eyes flickered and, for a second, they drifted over Sombra’s. It wasn’t even a second, barely a fraction of one, and yet she felt as if the blood in her veins had turned to ice. His eyes were dimmed and dark. A shadow had gone over them, resting comfortably in his relaxed features. Gone was the wild, young man, incapable of making a smart decision regarding anything. Scarier still was that Sombra recognized this look. She’d seen it before. In the faces of brutes enjoying the act of making others bleed. In men taking advantage of the darkness and seclusion of an alley, combined with the bad luck of a local woman.

Asti seemed to have seen this change in him too. She took a small step backwards. The Italian woman had not lost her composure, despite the look of unease in her eyes. “What you are about to do… I needn’t remind you that having our prisoners expire while undergoing this little plan of yours would be highly inconvenient?”

Krone looked at Reaper, swallowing before speaking. “You know as well as I that Ziegler is the only one who needs to survive my advances. But I see your point. I shall try to _control_ myself.” He accompanied the last part with a smile. One that showed too many teeth. “I trust you do not wish to be there during the interrogation?”

“Oh, you know me so well,” Asti bit back. “I have been ordered to remain in Spain until this whole matter is successfully concluded.”

“I’ll miss you when you’re gone, my lovely.”

“You can have such a way with words when you wish to, Krone.”

He smiled. The wolfish, hungry smile that made Sombra want to turn her eyes away. “I know my limits. We have a contract we have to work around. You shouldn’t feel the need to hawk my every move.”

“I’ll seize my involvement once your failed plans stop making headline news. You brought me and the Italian department into this with that little highway stunt of yours. Why do you think the board is now breathing down your neck? It’s not to give you a promotion, I’ll tell you that.”

“Careful, Marzia.” Krone’s voice turned dark. “I have been given a task, to get answers, and I intend to fulfill it. But now you’re making me angry.”

“Good. When you’re angry you make mistakes. It’s the main reason I spoke against you taking lead over the Spanish HQ. Maybe now the board will finally see reason.”

“You spoke against me?”

Now it was Asti’s turn to smile. “Highly.”

Krone’s hands knotted into fists, then relaxed again. His long fingers curling and uncurling. He looked back up at Reaper. He hadn’t moved during Asti and Krone’s exchange.

“If things don’t go as you say… If I don’t get her soon…”

“You will get her,” Krone said. Reaper ignored him.

“If I don’t get her… I will kill you.”

* * *

 

Tracer tried not to fall asleep. In fact, she had tried her hardest to stay awake. She wouldn’t let that man, whoever he was, catch her unawares again. She’d pushed herself into the corner, nursing her sore ribs and staring at the cell door. For hours she stayed like that. At least it felt like hours. Hours where her body yearned for rest. It was only a matter of time before her exhausted, tried body gave in to its need for sleep.

She woke, startled that she’d even lost consciousness, expecting a looming figure to be towering over her. But she was still alone. And by now her bruises were making their presence known. Every movement was filled with ache, and standing up felt like a fist crushing the entire left side of her ribcage. After a few wobbly steps, she sat down on the bed, tasting blood in her mouth from where her teeth had bit the inside of her cheek.

This should have been expected. This is what they did, she knew it. She’d read about it. How prisoners of war were treated in certain areas, by certain enemies. But she’d never honestly believed Talon would get to this level.

Then she thought of Reaper and Widowmaker. How changed they were, how _wrong_. Simple torture would be nothing to an organization like Talon. They would pay any price, stoop to any low, if they thought it would aid their efforts.

And Sombra? Tracer didn’t even want to think about Sombra. Where did she fit into all of this? She always showed up when Talon was involved, knew things that it would make sense for only Talon to know… but then she would stop a Talon attack, aid Tracer’s escape. She had wanted a favour, that day in the warehouse. A favour that she had yet to turn in. That made a chill run up Tracer’s spine.

She did not want to be indebted to that woman, in any way. In fact, she would be happy if she never saw her again, never had to hear her mocking, sensual voice… even if she still remembered how it felt when the woman had touched her. Even if her dreams were haunted by sharp fingers and the scent of her skin.

Tracer shook her head. This was not the time for those thoughts. She hated Sombra, _hated_ her. Hated her for manipulating her, for touching her, for filling a void Tracer thought would plague her forever. She _hated_ her for threatening her, for knowing her, for helping her when she didn’t want her to.

She was using Tracer for her own gains, it was so obvious. That was what made the hate so easy to fuel. Sombra had goals. Goals that demanded sacrifice, sacrifices Sombra was more than willing to make if it meant getting what she wanted. Tracer just didn’t know _what_ she wanted, exactly.

At that moment, there was commotion outside her door. Tracer stood quickly, regretting the movement immediately. Her side felt painful, but it wasn’t as bad as she had first thought. She could stand without falling over, which was more than she’d thought herself capable of when the man had left her earlier.

When the door swung open, she had expected to see the same, ordinary looking man enter her cell. She got something else entirely. First came a large soldier in a light military uniform. He immediately stood himself between her and the door, barring her from moving towards it as two other guards entered, one carrying a set of chairs, the other dragging a familiar figure.

“Angela!” The outburst was involuntary, as was the quick steps Tracer took towards her friend as they placed her down in one of the chairs they’d carried in with them. The first soldier grabbed Tracer by the shoulders, hard, shoving her backwards into the wall, while the other two bound Mercy’s hands behind the back of the chair. Mercy didn’t move. Her head was hanging limply against her chest, red streaks colouring stripes in her blonde hair.

It took all of Tracer’s self-control not to scream at the soldiers. She had already made a mistake when she said Angela’s name. She wouldn’t make another. But seeing Angela hunched over in the chair, rope tearing into her skin and fresh bruises on her face, made Tracer want to scream out a thousand obscenities just to make the anger more tolerable.

The two soldiers left once they were done tying Mercy’s hands together, but they were quickly replaced by two other men. One she recognized as the man who’d beat her earlier, but the other was a stranger. He was wearing a nicely tailored suit, and his hair was cut short and professionally, but Tracer couldn’t help feeling like he was a boy who had dressed up in his father’s clothes.

The man in the suit nodded at someone outside, and the door was closed behind him. That left the five of them in the cell, now completely barred off from the outside. The soldier pinning her to the wall let her go.

The suited man opened his hands welcomingly. 

“Good evening.” _So it was evening…_ “My name is Krone. Victor Krone. You do not know, I trust? I would be surprised if you did.”

He pulled out the other chair, placing it so it sat across from the bed. He gestured at it. “Please sit.”

She didn’t. She pushed her chin forward stubbornly, shooting daggers at the man with her eyes. The soldier standing next to her didn’t hesitate, placing a powerful punch in her gut that made bile rise in her mouth.

“Now Ryder, that was uncalled for,” Krone said, as Ryder pushed Tracer down on the bed. “I apologize for lieutenant Ryder. He gets overexcited sometimes.”

Tracer glared at Krone. His face was open and inviting. Telling her that it was alright to talk. The silent man standing behind her, the man who’d beat her while asking question after meaningless question, shattered any illusion of friendliness this man might be trying to conjure up.

“I am sorry that it has to come to this, Lena, I really am.” She jumped slightly at the use of her name, but kept quiet. “Trust me, I would have much preferred that we could resolve this like civilized folk. Instead we have to sort to this mess.”

He made a gesture at Mercy sitting behind him, still unconscious in the chair.

“We wouldn’t have to, you know. We could just let this all go. We could set you two up in a nice living space where you could enjoy each other’s company while we sort this out. From what Joyson told me,” Krone pointed to the stone-faced man standing behind him, “your friend might require medical attention. I am no doctor, but she doesn’t look all that well, if you ask me.”

He was making her angry. So angry it hurt to keep her outbursts from coming out. Krone smiled.

“I could get her that. A doctor. A bed. Some proper food. You just have to be cooperative. Help me, and I’ll help you. Understand?”

The anger started turning to dread in her stomach. Somewhere in her mind she began understanding what he was saying. She started understanding the consequences lain in the offer he’d just given her. She lowered her eyes away from him.

What followed happened over just a few seconds. Joyson pulled out a small canister of water and threw it in Mercy’s face. Upon contact with the water, she gasped and opened her eyes. She looked up briefly, before Joyson’s fist rammed into her jaw, making the chair she was sitting on tip dangerously.

Tracer began standing with a cry, but was immediately pushed back down by Ryder. Krone hadn’t turned. He was still looking at her.

“I don’t think you understand the situation here, Miss Oxton. You might think that you are powerless to do anything, on account of Ryder here holding you in place. You might think me cruel for subjugating your friend to this kind of treatment.”

Behind her, Joyson had grabbed Mercy’s hair and forced her to face him again. His fist moved quick and precise, striking Angela hard right below the eye. Her head rolled, before he straightened it again and struck her jaw once more. When her head lolled back up there was blood dripping from her mouth.

Krone gave her a sadistically calming smile. “But I am not in control here. Surely you must understand, I can’t help what is happening to this poor, _poor_ woman. But you can. You can make it stop. If you would just answer a few questions. Then all of this can end.”

Mercy was leaning limply forward again, but she was no longer unconscious. Blood from her mouth was dripping to the floor softly. Her breathing was laboured and raspy, and her eyes were red from lack of sleep. The dark rings beneath her eyes, a result of many nights spent studying medical papers rather than sleeping, had deepened into a blue-black colour. She looked as if she hadn’t slept in a week.

Krone’s face turned serious. “How many Overwatch agents are active?”

Tracer’s chest tightened. She couldn’t answer. She knew she couldn’t answer. She looked away from Krone again.

Joyson brought down his foot on Mercy’s shin. His military boot hit as hard as a hammer and Mercy let out a sharp cry through gritted teeth. She clenched her eyes shut through the pain, but she was given no time to prepare for the next strike, before he brought down his boot on the same spot as before.

“It’s not a hard question, Lena.” Krone’s voice was piercing in the cell. “How many?”

Tracer turned her head fully away now. She didn’t want to look. Looking made her want to talk, made her want to stop all this. And he made it seem so simple, when she knew that it wasn’t. He would never give her what they wanted, even if she talked. But seeing the pain in Mercy’s face whenever Joyson struck her… it flooded her with a feeling of guilt. Just like they wanted.

It was at that moment Angela turned towards her. Until then, Tracer hadn’t fully seen her face, and every time Joyson hit her, Angela was turned further away from her.

The entirely left side of her face was covered in bruises. Some fresh, but many looked days old. There were red marks around her nostrils, and both her upper and lower lip were cracked and bleeding. Her hair, usually so unruly and healthy, was now dirty from sweat and blood.

Mercy shook her head, making beads of blood drip onto her prison jumpsuit. “Don’t… don’t talk…”

Her voice was so low. So weak. It made the guilt in Tracer’s chest ten times worse.

“Lena.” Krone’s voice demanded her attention. “Please. How many agents?”

She knew she shouldn’t. She knew that she should ignore him. She should ignore him and turn away, and try to ignore the stifled cries escaping Mercy’s mouth whenever Joyson landed another punch on her. Closing her eyes, she forced herself to look away.

Krone sighed. “I tried being reasonable. I gave you amble opportunity.”

Tracer opened her eyes when she heard Krone’s chair scrape across the floor. He had stood now and she caught him giving a short nod to Joyson.

The man with the lifeless face lifted Mercy out of the chair and forcefully pinned her against the wall. With a calm and quickness that terrified Tracer he drew a long knife from his belt and placed it in the opening between Mercy’s jumpsuit and her skin. In one motion, he forced the knife downward, tearing the back of the one-piece suit wide open, stopping only when the blade reached the trouser section of the suit. Then he spun her around, facing her, and with the same efficiency cut an identical opening down the front. She was naked underneath, her skin purple and yellow from bruises.

With barely any hesitation, Joyson flipped the knife in his hand and pierced the skin between two of Mercy’s ribs ever so slightly. Carefully, as if he was a surgeon, he trailed the blade along the skin, leaving a bright, open, red wound where it had been. And for the first time Mercy’s cry wasn’t stifled.

She fought against his strength, making the knife shudder and jagging into her skin, likely making the pain much worse. Nausea rose in Tracer’s throat as she saw the monster of a being standing over Angela, spilling crimson bright blood down her stomach.

“See what this has come to?” Krone said, sadness in his voice. He gave another nod.

Joyson spun Mercy around again, forcing her hard against the wall. She cried out when the fresh wound on her stomach made contact with the grey concrete.

“I just want this to stop, don’t you understand?” Krone said.

In a quick motion, Joyson drew a small, black device from his belt. When he pressed a button, it folded out into what looked like the batons worn by police. Except this was longer and thinner.

Not pausing, he reeled back and struck her across the shoulder blades, leaving a bright, red line where it had touched. Angela’s entire body tightened in pain and she let out a scream that made the pit of dread in Tracer’s stomach ache.

Joyson waited a second or two, waited for the pain from the first blow to fade, before he struck again - this time lower and harder. The line left behind began bleeding at the edges, pearling red to the surface of Mercy’s white skin.

Then he hit her again. And again. Repeating the horribly cycle of reeling back, striking, waiting. Once Tracer tried to look away, but Ryder was there, forcing her to look at Mercy’s naked back as she was tortured in front of her very eyes. Angela’s entire body would tighten every time she was struck. Her teeth clenched through some screams, but far from all.

After a while, Angela’s back was red and bloody from the strikes, and Joyson looked lower. He slammed the cane into the back of her thighs and though the blow was softened by the jumpsuit she was still partially wearing, it was enough to make her already quivering legs falter. She slipped down, crouched against the wall as Joyson continued to rain blows over her exposed back, the cane coming back red and slick after each hit.

“You are crueller than I thought, Lena,” Krone said, crouching down next to her. He wiped away a tear from her eye, one of many that streaked her face. “You know you can end this. You can end it so easily. And yet you continue to let it happen. Why?”

When she didn’t answer, he sighed again. His shoulders sagged, as if he was actually disappointed in her.

“Joyson.” The man stopped immediately, arm raised awkwardly over his head. He brought it down, standing attentive with his arms behind his back, waiting for orders. Krone shook his head at the ground. “Do what you have to.”

Joyson nodded.

He dropped the cane on the floor, seizing Mercy by her blonde, sweaty hair and tossing her backwards. Her body was so spent from pain and bleeding that she had little choice but to fall where he dropped her. She lay, with her hands still bound behind her back. She caught Tracer’s eyes then and it looked as though she was trying to say something, but the words never escaped her lips.

Grabbing her by the hair again, Joyson dragged her forward a few steps, before dropping her again. He let her squirm, trying to get away from him. Her half naked body was red from blood and it left a disgustingly clear trail on the floor as she moved.

Joyson then put one of his boots on the small of Angela’s back, right in the cluster of bleeding wounds, and slowly put weight on it. The scream of agony escaping Mercy’s lips was unlike anything prior, shattering any strength Tracer might have had left in her. She screamed as Joyson put more and more of his weight on her back, pushing grime and dirt from his boots into her fresh wounds.

Another nod from Krone. And it wasn’t until then Tracer noticed the growing bulge around Joyson’s crotch.

Disgust, fury and terror all washed over her at once as Joyson began undoing his belt, leaving no doubt in Tracer’s mind as to what was about to happen. No doubt about what horrifying thing they were about to do in an attempt to get her to talk. Just trying to get information, _any_ information.

Mercy’s face had grown blank as her eyes drooped. The pain was too much for her body to handle. Her resistance stopped and she lay still beneath him now. Defenceless, as Joyson began unzipping his pants. His face lit up with want, the only sign of emotion she’d seen in him at all. A dark, craving hunger looming in his eyes.

“No, stop!” Joyson immediately stopped and Krone turned to face her. Tears were flowing heavily from Tracer’s eyes now, making the scene around her blurry. “Don’t hurt her anymore.”

Krone stepped closer and in the background Tracer noticed Mercy’s eyes open up and look at her, _pleading_ her.

“Will you answer my questions?”

Tracer swallowed. “Yes.”

“Good. Very good. I knew we could come to an understanding.” He sat down in front of her again. “How many agents do you have active?”

 “Seven.”

“That’s counting you two?”

Tracer nodded, looking away.

“And Zhou?” Krone asked.

“I don’t know if she made it. She was in bad shape when we found her.”

“I see.” He flashed a grin that was all teeth. He might have meant it to be soothing, but it had the opposite effect. “Give me their names.”

Tracer clenched her teeth. She didn’t want to speak, but it only took Krone glancing in Mercy’s direction for her to start talking. “Torbjörn Lindholm, Reinhardt Wilhelm, Brigitte Keifer, Fareeha Amari and Winston.”

Tracer had purposefully left out Ana. The world still believed she was dead, there was no reason to change that. She’d considered leaving out Pharah too, but she’d been seen in the raid quite clearly. Tracer highly doubted they didn’t already know about her alignment with Overwatch.

Krone raised his eyebrows, feigning poor surprise. “An Amari? Interesting. And this… Brigitte? Who’s she?”

“Reinhardt’s mechanic. She helps repair his armour.”

 “And where are they holed up? Where is your base?”

This was what he’d led up to. _This_ was what he really wanted to know. She hesitated a moment, like he would expect her to do, before answering.

“Watchpoint Anholt. It’s an island lying between Denmark and Sweden.”

“I don’t recall there being a Watchpoint in that area.”

“There wasn’t. Winston built it. He thought it wise that no one knew where we were. And the old Watchpoints would be where everyone would look first.”

“Smart, your scientist,” Krone said, smiling again. He put a hand on Tracer’s shoulder. She had to restrain herself from biting it. “Let her go, Ryder.”

The soldier obeyed, releasing his grip. Tracer immediately darted forward, rushing to Mercy’s side. Her friend was breathing heavily, blood oozing slowly from the wounds on her back. Tracer wanted to help, but didn’t know how. There were too many wounds, too much blood.

“Why…” Angela’s voice was raw from screaming. “Why did…”

“Don’t speak, Angie, don’t talk. Just…” Tracer looked down at the bloody mess left on the doctor’s back.

“I’d love to stay and chat, but I have some meetings I have to attend. Highest priority,” Krone straightened his suit. “Ryder and Joyson will remain here. Just to make sure you don’t do anything foolish.”

Tracer glared after him as he went to the door and knocked briskly. It opened with a sigh, briefly giving view into a well-lit hallway, before closing again.

“You shouldn’t have--” Angela’s voice died when she started coughing, sending her body into painful convulsing.

“Be still, Angela, you shouldn’t move.” Tracer’s hands hovered awkwardly over the bloody flesh on Mercy’s back. “I-- I’m sorry, I don’t… I don’t know what to do.”

Mercy, hand still bound on her back, pressed her forehead to Tracer’s knee. Her eyes were closing again, but Tracer though she saw tears glisten over them.

“Just… don’t leave.” Angela’s voice was so small. “Don’t let me go.”

Tracer couldn’t speak. Her voice would descend into sobbing if she tried. Angela had always seemed so strong to her, ever since the beginning. She was scary smart, brave beyond belief and on top of that, so kind that just being around her lightened your mood. Seeing her like this, curled up in a ball of pain and blood, broke Tracer’s heart.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.” Her voice quivered. “I didn’t… I wanted to stop it.”

Mercy’s eyes shut fully now, her blue eyes fading as her body demanded rest. “Don’t talk, Lena… Don’t tell them…”

“Be quiet, please. Don’t speak, Angie, just…” Just what? What could possibly make this better? How long until they figured out the lie? Until that sleaze, Krone, came back with more questions and more torture? Tracer glanced up at Joyson. He stood stoically next to the door, staring straight ahead like a statue.

“I’ll kill you, you hear me!” Tracer yelled, making the man look down at her streaked face. “I’ll kill you for what you’ve done.”

No response. No reaction. Nothing beyond an occasional blink. As if he hadn’t just beaten, tortured and almost raped a woman.

Then the door opened.

Everyone in the cell froze as the heavy, metal door swung open on its hinges, as if a brisk wind had just blown it open. An instance of complete silence, before Ryder and Joyson began moving. And then, the movement was brief.

Ryder was the first to fall, a bright red line across his throat, just as if an invisible knife had cut through his skin. He fell quickly, coughing blood out on the floor and walls. Joyson got a different treatment, as his hands suddenly went to his neck, clawing at invisible fingers digging into his throat. His eyes bulged out wide and his legs gave way beneath him, as the lack of oxygen going to his brain began shutting down his body.

In seconds, both soldiers lay motionless on the floor. There was a shimmer in the air and a shape started materializing, standing between the two downed men. Sombra grimaced at the blood now splotched on her boots. “Aw, what a mess.”

Tracer was frozen in place. This was the last thing she had expected. The last possible situation she thought she could have found herself in.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

Sombra gave a teasing smile. “And here I thought you wouldn’t have missed me, _mija_. I’d love to explain everything to you in grave and excruciating detail, but I’m afraid you don’t have much time. Talon is stupid, but they are not complete imbeciles. You need to move.”

Move? Tracer’s eyes darted to the still open door, and realization dawned on her in a wave of fright and excitement.

She stood, ignoring the pain rushing through her ribs when she did, and went to where Joyson’s unconscious body lay still. She turned him over, pulling off his surprisingly clean shirt and taking the knife from his belt.

“What are you doing?” Sombra asked. She was standing by the doorway impatiently. “This isn’t the time to play dress up.”

Tracer ignored her, using the knife to cut the bounds around Mercy’s wrists. The rope had dug into her skin, leaving angry, red marks. She put the large shirt around the doctor as carefully as possible and tied the torn upper part of the jumpsuit around her waist to keep it from slipping down.

“You’re bringing her?” Sombra asked indignantly as Tracer hoisted Mercy to her feet. Carrying her weight hurt Tracer more than she liked to admit, but she gritted her teeth against the pain.

“I’m not leaving her behind.”

Sombra’s eyes were wide with surprise and frustration. “ _Dios mio._   _¡_ _Venga, mija!_ This is not the time to play hero.”

“I’m not playing hero. I’m just doing what’s right. But I doubt you’d understand.”

Sombra looked at her with frustrated wonder in her eyes. She shook her head matter-of-factly. “Whatever. It’s your funeral, _pendeja_.”

She passed her two security cards. One was a standard swipe card used to open doors. The other was larger and made of a material similar to metal.

“There is an elevator further down the hall. It’s locked, only high level personnel are allowed to use it. That’s what the card gives you.” Sombra gestured at the first card. “Once you’re in, go to the hangar marked H2, and go to lot 09. There will be an empty aircraft waiting there. With functional solar panels.” She smirked at the joke. Tracer didn’t. She knew she was in no position to ask questions. She didn’t have time to do anything other than run right now. And yet she couldn’t help herself.

“Why are you helping me?”

Sombra’s smirk stretched into a wide grin. She trailed one of her long nails along Tracer’s lip, and, for once, Tracer was too stunned to move away. “I still need you, _mija_. And I don’t like when other people play with my toys.”

And with that she flickered out of sight. “You better start running, _rayo_. They are slow, but not as slow as you are. Don’t forget your gift!”

Then Sombra was gone. Just as sudden and quick as she had appeared. Tracer turned and looked at the carnage the woman had left in her wake. Fresh blood pooling around Ryder’s neck, Joyson groaning from his position on the floor.

Seeing him moving on the ground like a snake made a surge of rage spark up inside of her. He was still alive. Bruised but living. And moving. His fingers were twitching, as were his legs. He would wake up soon.  

Raising her foot, she brought it down fast and hard on the side of Joyson’s neck, making it snap with an audible _crack_. His fingers twitched a few more times, as his nerves drew on the last bit of energy left in his body, before they grew still.

“Go rot in hell, you sick son of a bitch.”

Then, from outside, an alarm went off.

Tracer hoisted Mercy further up and rushed out the cell. Outside the door she found a small, metal box. It had a lock on it, but its metal was bent and melted away. Tracer couldn’t quite hold back a smile. Sombra’s ‘gift’.

Holding the box with one hand, and carrying Mercy with the other she started staggering down the hallway. The alarm still blaring around them was not stilling, but there weren’t any guards there yet. Either the alarm was for something else, or the guards who were supposed to walk this section were somehow cut off. Tracer didn’t rightly know which one to believe.

Walking to the elevator took longer than she would have expected, even when carrying Mercy. Angela was not completely unconscious, but it didn’t exactly help. Whenever she slipped into lucidity she moaned in pain and tried keeping herself standing, always failing. Mercy’s hands were shaking and her face was white as snow. She looked like death.

“Leave… me…” Mercy muttered through pale lips when they finally made it to the elevator and Tracer swiped the keycard through its sensor.

“Shut up, Angie. I don’t want to hear that kind of talk.”

“I’m slowing you down…”

“Rubbish. I thought you were supposed to be some sort of progeny. Didn’t know they made progenies stupid.”

Mercy laughed and it was horrible. Too raspy and wet. The arm Tracer had around her was growing slick from blood seeping through Joyson’s shirt.

“Just hang on. Look, the elevator is here, and--”

_“Prisoners escaping! Open fire!”_

The familiar sound of suppressed gunfire made Tracer instinctively drop to the ground, just as the elevator doors opened up. She threw herself and Mercy into the booth, slamming the button marked H2, as the sound of rapid footsteps grew louder down the hallway. The relief she felt when the door slipped shut behind them was intoxicating.

“We made it,” Tracer said, smiling. “Look, Angie, we--”

She stopped, the relief washing out of her. Angela had pushed herself against the wall of the elevator. Her eyes were glassy from exhaustion and shock. Blood was everywhere, in her hair, on her face. Ebbing through her fingers from a bullet wound in her stomach.

“No. No, no, no!” Tracer fell to her knees next to the doctor, quickly using the knife she’d taken from Joyson to cut off one of the sleeves on Mercy’s jumpsuit, and using the fabric as makeshift bandage to tie around Angela’s waist.

“I’m f-fine,” she stammered weakly. “It’s n-nothing.”

“Damn right, it’s nothing,” Tracer said, swallowing the rising panic as warm blood wetted her hands. She couldn’t tell if the bleeding was stopping or not, if the wound was serious or not.

The elevator _dinged_ as it got one floor closer to their destination and Tracer cursed. They had no time. No time and no strength left. Quickly, bloody fingers slipping on the box’s handle, she opened the container housing her translocator and strapped the device around her chest. It felt slightly off, but there wasn’t anything she could do about it right now. Now she could just hope.

“Come on,” she said, pulling Mercy back on her feet. Angela led out a scream of protest, but Tracer forced herself to ignore the pain she was putting her friend through.

As the elevator doors opened, Tracer had half expected a squadron of armed goons waiting for them, but the hangar looked completely empty. The alarm still blaring behind them as they began wobbling forward, looking for lot 09. It didn’t take Tracer long to find it. A slick, modern aircraft bearing an Overwatch insignia on its side. Probably a ploy made by Talon to try and trick their Watchpoint sensors. _Very funny, Sombra…_

The keycard she’d been given opened the craft without any issue and Tracer carried Mercy the final few steps before placing her down in the co-pilot’s seat. Angela groaned softly, trying to lift her head to look around, but there was no strength left in her movements.

“It’s okay. It’s okay, Angie, we made it. Just hang on.” Tracer began strapping her in, when she heard voices and running footsteps outside, followed by the sound of rapid gunfire pelting off the aircraft exterior. Tracer ducked down, grimacing as she heard how the bullets sank into the craft’s metal. How much would it take, she wondered?

Then there was a loud whirr of machinery as the great hangar doors began closing.

Cursing loudly, Tracer leapt into the pilot’s seat, ignoring the bullets whisking against the window in front of her. She switched on the engine, heated up the thrusters and heard startled cries as the heat from the aircraft forced the nearing soldiers to back away.

There was no time to practice. No time to get used to how the craft moved or acted. They had to go. And they had to go now.

Jerking the ship into the air with a leap that surprised even her, she steered the craft forward as fast as it could go. The engine was not fully warmed up and the nose began tilting, but Tracer worked against it, forcing the little machine into overdrive.

_Come on…_

The hangar doors were closing. There were cries and yells in her ears. A roar from the overworked engine.

_Almost there…_

Mercy wasn’t moving in her seat. Her fingers, usually so clean and elegant, hung curled and unmoving out over the armrest. Tracer felt tears spark up in her eyes. Dangerous tears that blurred her vision, but she could not move her hands to wipe them away.

There was nothing to do, except go forward. Forward towards an opening that grew smaller and smaller, the nearer they came. There were now only seconds between them and freedom, while the great hangar doors slowly closed that window of opportunity. Jaws closing around their prey.

Tracer pushed forward. Forcing the aircraft to go harder, faster towards the opening. So close. So close to being safe.

_Just a little bit… further!_

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 50.000 words? There's a milestone I never thought I'd reach. 
> 
> But yes, another update is here. It took me so long to finally finish this. I think I rewrote the thing about four or five times, always considering how graphic I could and should make it. This was meant to be disturbing, but I completely understand if some people do not wish to read about that sort of thing. Hence why I will post warnings on all chapters that carry this type of graphic, violent content. No one should be tricked into reading something they do not wish to read. 
> 
> Anyway... huge thank you to every single one of you that left me comments and sent me messages. You are the ones giving me the confidence and desire to keep going with a story that has challenged me in ways I did not think it would. You help make me better, and help make the story better. And I cannot thank you enough. Seriously. 
> 
> Next chapter is coming when it's ready. Hope you all enjoyed.
> 
> Peace.


	11. Return

Before, alcohol had never seemed like the answer. More than anything, it had been a threat looming in shadows of dark memories and nightmares. Fareeha had seen it tear people and families apart enough times to know the dangers it held. She’d seen soldiers, ten years her junior, stumbling half-conscious through the halls of dozens of military bases with the scent of vodka fresh on their breath. She’d seen them remove themselves from the company of others, seeking support at the bottom of a bottle instead of with their squad and friends.

Pharah had never been that way. She enjoyed alcohol in modest amounts and made sure to never drink more than to give her a slight buzz. Her need for control over herself and those she commanded was greater than the relief provided in a bottle of wine.

But that was before. Before Overwatch and Italy and Ana and Angela. Before the days blurred together with the nights into painful spirals of dreams and recollections, swirling together in a mishmash of dark thoughts threatening to make her fall apart.

The first day after the raid had been the worst. The first hours.

Fareeha winced, thinking of the moment again. Her fingers curled against the dull earth beneath her, and she tasted salt on her lips from the sea touched wind. She had purposely not brought the bottle of cheap scotch she’d gotten from Reinhardt’s private storage, but she was starting to regret that decision. She started regretting coming to this spot.

After Ana had arrived she had walked the island dry. She had explored every one of Keros’, admittedly, small number of nooks, and after a few hours she’d found a cliff with a view that bordered on being pretty. At least, in comparison to the brown and grey offered by the rest of the island.

The cliff was high, offering a wide look at the dark blue ocean stretching out unbroken from the Watchpoint for miles around. The blackish sea only occasionally broken by the white crest of a wave.

She considered jumping.

It wasn’t the first time the thought had crossed her mind. In fact, the urge had been pinching the back of her head insistently ever since Ana had dragged her into the back of that air carrier, removing Fareeha from the two women left behind in a pile of dust and bloody rubble.

Her shoulders tightened as the image flashed into her head. Seeing Angela falling, _diving_ downwards, hands outstretched and a look of terror on her face. Not the fear of death, so often found on soldiers rushing into battle, but instead the fear of loss. The fear of feeling yet another person slip away from your life. Being barred from helping them. Being held back by pain and strong arms, refusing to let you help or act.

The few moments where Pharah had been able to see reason, she understood why Ana had done what she did. As a mother, she had seen her daughter injured and hurting, and made sure she was safe. As a commander, she had seen a soldier compromised by emotion, and held them back from what would most likely have been their demise. It made sense. It should.

And yet… whenever Fareeha thought of the moment those aircraft doors closed… The moment she was barricaded from rushing to Angela’s side and shielding her from the onslaught of Talon forces… The one emotion rising above all others had been fury.

She had tried to attack her mother then, she remembered. Slamming her into the craft’s walls, ignoring the broken ribs aching in her chest. The scene was blurry, but Reinhardt had told her the details after she woke up from the sleep Ana’s field tranquilizer had put her into. She’d been handcuffed to a medical bed back in Watchpoint Keros, Mei Zhou, the whole purpose of their mission, sleeping soundly only a few beds over.

Fareeha hated her too. It was unreasoned, illogical hate and she knew it, but didn’t fight it. Having someone to blame, even if unwarranted, made the pain more bearable. 

Mei had regained consciousness after a day of sleeping. The stress and shock from the treatment she’d received while in Talon’s care had left her body tried and pale, but otherwise healthy. There were no lasting injuries, physically, and according to Ana she would soon be able to walk around the Watchpoint without assistance. Pharah was a different case.

Even without Mercy’s Caduceus staff or her expert medical knowledge, it only took two days before Fareeha was able to walk without grimacing in pain. She was out of bed by the end of the first day. Her mother, now the only somewhat trained medical professional on hand, was always in the medbay, going over the inventory or watching Mei’s vitals and recovery. Fareeha couldn’t handle it. She could barely handle the sight of Ana, let alone be in the same room as her.

They’d fought after they got back, not unexpectedly. Fareeha had called her mother a coward, a heartless weakling. She’d taken it all without speaking, her one remaining eye revealing nothing of the thoughts going through her head. She just stood there, as her only child thrashed and cried and screamed, stopping only when exhaustion overtook her, forcing her into sleep.

Pharah got to her feet, unsteadily. She swayed slightly on the cliff’s edge, once again thinking of how easy it would be to do it. Just one step forward and that would be it. A few moments of weightlessness, before her body was crushed against the rocks below. The call of the void, was the term. A fascination with balancing on the knife’s edge of life itself. A surge in the bottom of her stomach urging her to…

… _jump!_

…

…

But once again she didn’t. For eight days she’d come to this cliff, standing on its edge and seeing the waves crash against razor-sharp cliffs. Every day she’d considered it. And every day she’d stopped herself.

Was it hope? Hope that they would both reappear, like Tracer had done before? Winston and Athena had worked tirelessly to try and find where Mercy and Tracer had been taken, if they had been taken, but had found little useful information. Their trail started and ended in Spain. Maybe they had been killed in the raid. Maybe they were currently being torn apart by Talon torturers in an attempt to pry information from their lips. Then what? Would they talk? Were Talon forces on their doorstep?

No, hope wasn’t the reason. There was not room for that in the turmoil of guilt and grief currently filling Pharah’s body. What was it then? Why did she bother with all this? She was supposed to be a hero, but she didn’t feel like one. In her time with Overwatch she had felt more pain and suffering than she thought would be possible. More disappointment and futility than ever before.

There had to be a reason she hadn’t taken the step forward into the void yet, but she didn’t know it. Maybe she would never know. Maybe she wasn’t meant to.

So, for the eighth time, Fareeha turned around and walked away from the cliff and back towards the Watchpoint, down the path her daily excursions had trod into the ground. It only took her a few minutes before she was back at the facility, but it wasn’t something she was looking forward to. Even with the ocean wind biting her skin painfully, like teeth made of icicles. Stepping into the Watchpoint felt like stepping into a wake. A sense of dread hung in the walls and halls, hung over the heads of those living there. She felt it. Even if people mostly stayed in their quarters.

Fareeha had gone to Angela’s room once. The door wasn’t locked and the room had been left in the gentle disarray of someone too lazy or too tired to properly do the bed after getting up in the morning. A used coffee cup had been left on the kitchen counter and a doctor’s coat was hanging off the back of one of the chairs. The scent had felt like a punch to the gut when Fareeha had entered. Mild trace of perfume and disinfectant. Of washing soap and sweat. Fareeha hadn’t stayed long.

Now she avoided the apartment floor as much as possible, staying in the gym, the offices, the empty conference room. Anywhere really. Now, she was making her way towards the hangar where she had over the past few days been tinkering with her Raptora suit. Torbjörn had offered to repair it after the crash it sustained in the raid, but Pharah had refused him. He had also offered her a spot in his workshop where fixing the suit would, admittedly, have been much easier, but again she turned him down. She wanted to be alone.

The hangar was mostly absent of people. The only one who occasionally came through was Brigitte whenever she needed to run some tests on Reinhardt’s armor, but that was a rare occurrence. Mostly, Pharah had the grandiose space to herself. Her suit hung limply from its rack, still as broken as the day she’d crashed it into the ground, leaving Mercy stranded on a nearby roof. The workbenches she’d pushed up next to the suit contained only unused tools and empty bottles. The scotch she’d left behind was sticking out from beneath an oiled cloth, but she left it. Her brain felt hazy and her tongue was thick in her mouth, like cotton.

What was the point of it all?

Why did they even bother fighting?

They were the heroes. They were supposed to be the good ones. The ones winning the battles and rescuing those who couldn’t save themselves. But right now, Fareeha was the one in need of saving. She was the one lost in hopelessness. She clutched the cloth in her fist, revealing more of the still full bottle of scotch. She growled, pushing herself away from the workstation. She walked out further, to where the open hangar doors let in the fresh air. It was cool, but not icy like it had been when she was walking, unshielded, outside.

The sky was cloudless and perfect blue. She couldn’t see the sun from where she stood, but its rays sparkled playfully in the crown of the waves, blinking at her like faerie lights. Occasionally, droplets of water would rise into the air, making small clouds of glittering rainbows. There was even a large shimmer as the sun caught a particularly highflying waterdrop.

Pharah frowned. The shine was unnatural. It was consistent, always occurring in the same place. And it was growing larger.

In an instant, the saddened, purposeless woman who had haunted Watchpoint Keros for the past eight days, vanished, and a hardness fell over her features. A hardness found in hunting lionesses or the matriarch of a group of wolves, staring down an opposing pack.

Pharah rushed to the nearby communicator, pressing down on a select set of buttons.

“Athena, what is that thing?” Her voice was cracked and hoarse. She hadn’t spoken much the last few days.

_“I do not understand what you mean,”_ Athena’s crisp voice responded.

The shimmering light was growing larger now. The sun reflecting on a blank surface.

“Something is coming. What do the scanners say?”

_“The scanners report no activity. The airspace is completely clear.”_

“Fuck your scanners…” Pharah muttered, grabbing a gun from a nearby weapons locker. “Keep checking. Something is coming and it’s coming fast.”

_“I’m sorry, but there is no vehicular movement found in a radius of 5.6 miles from Watchpoint Keros.”_

“Your scanners are wrong.” Pharah quickly loaded the pistol, her hands shaking despite herself. The haze in her mind was an ever-present consequence of the heavy drinking she had subjected herself to over the last week. “The cameras. Check the goddamn cameras for movement then.”

Athena’s speakers grew quiet as Pharah steeled herself. The glint was not diminishing. Quite opposite, it was growing larger. And rapidly so. The reflection stopped being an item made of pure light and slowly grew to have features. Sharp lines marking wings. An elongated, clean machine soaring towards Watchpoint Keros with frightening purpose.

Pharah scanned the sky with her eyes, looking for signs of movement and finding none. The craft seemed to be alone in its advancement. She frowned.

_Why was it alone?_

_“Cameras confirm an advancing aircraft!”_ Athena’s voice yelled from the speakers, immediately followed by the rhythmic wailing of the alarm system. _“Scans provide no visual; interior of aircraft unknown. Passengers unknown. Attempts at contacting advancing flight model Firelight-2060 unsuccessful.”_

“Firelight?” Pharah’s frown deepened. She was familiar with the Firelight model. It had been an immensely popular aircraft during Overwatch’s involvement in the Omnic Crisis and had seen little use outside of the agency’s control due to the high price of its construction. They had been largely recommissioned after the Crisis, leaving only scraps and skeletons to show off at museums and galleries.

_“Preparing Watchpoint antiaircraft defense systems. All cannons loading-”_

“Wait!” Pharah cut off Athena’s report. Her hand, still on the pistol, was trembling as she looked at the nearing Firelight. It was close enough that she swore she could make out a white and orange Overwatch insignia painted on its side.

“Stop.”

Fareeha’s breath grew shaky. The aircraft was getting closer and lowering as well. Aiming for the small opening to the hangar.

“It’s going to land.”

_“Pharah, allowing an unregistered vehicle into the Watchpoint is--”_

“It’s a goddamn Firelight and it’s honed on our position. In its time, that thing carried the firepower of a small nuke. Our best case scenario is that it spontaneously crashes into the ocean, but I somehow find that unlikely. Let it land.”

_“It would endanger--”_

“Let it land!”

The hangar grew quiet for a moment as Athena’s ever calculating mind fell silent. The faint wail of the alarm and the whistle from the brisk wind whipping Pharah’s black braids away from her face were the only sounds present.

_“Of course, captain.”_

Pharah gave a quick nod and looked back up at the sky. The aircraft was close enough that she could clearly make out what was, in fact, the Overwatch insignia painted on the plane’s side. Its descent was constant and obvious, but it was not consistent. Without the connection with the Watchpoint radio system, an automated landing was not possible and the pilot would have to put down the plane manually. The bobbing and shaking of the aircraft made Pharah’s stomach turn. This would not be pretty.

Quickly backing away from the open hangar doors, Pharah didn’t take her eyes off the still advancing aircraft. Safety off the handgun. Steeling herself against the potential threat looming towards her. Adrenaline burning away the haze that had clouded her mind for the past several days. Her eyes flashed with energy and her muscles tensed beneath her civilian clothes.

Then the Firelight touched ground.

Though the descent had been somewhat controlled, the landing was far from it. The Firelight didn’t need an actual runway to land, and was designed to be lowered to the ground softly, much like a helicopter. But the process still required some finesse when done manually and there was none of that in this case. The humongous aircraft scraped against the surface of the hangar, sparks and concrete splintering away the machinery as the craft skidded over the floor, leaving long marks in the base of the hangar. The sound was screeching and deafening, like nails against a chalkboard.

Pharah raised the gun, eyes focused on the settling aircraft. The long, lean plane stilled, its cockpit darkened by tainted, bulletproof glass.

As Pharah neared the aircraft, a loud sigh escaped the machine. Pharah immediately dove behind cover as the door on the side of the craft opened up, creating a small climb of stairs into the plane’s interior.

“Come out with your hands up!” Pharah yelled.

No response. No movement.

Behind her there was the sound of an opening door and rapid footfalls. Pharah spun, holding up her hand to Ana and Reinhardt who had just entered the hangar. They both stopped in their tracks, stunned, more so because of the large Overwatch aircraft that had suddenly appeared in the hangar than Pharah’s silent command.

“Whoever you are, we have you surrounded. Come out with your hands up and we will not open fire!”

Silence.

With a low curse Pharah stood out from her cover and marched forward towards the Firelight. Behind her, she heard Ana call her name, but Pharah ignored it. She was done with this. All of this. The world faded away, leaving only the aircraft in her focus. Her close encounters with death over the past week, the void made of seafoam and grey cliffs, had turned her otherwise stoic personality on its head. She had never feared death, not for herself anyway. She feared failing those she was set out to defend, those who counted on her for guidance and protection. And she feared being useless more than anything else.

The calling of the cliffs was useless. No one would win anything from her plummeting into the foamy ocean, never to be seen again. Her death would have been cowardly and selfish.

But marching into an unexplored aircraft, likely filled with enemies. No backup. No intel. No armor. She grinned manically as she walked up the short stair leading into the plane. If this was how she died, she wouldn’t mind. Was she foolish? Was she irrational? Most certainly. But rushing up the steps, feeling the adrenaline pumping through her, she didn’t feel selfish. She didn’t feel cowardly.

This was what soldiers did, was it not? Rushed into danger for those they’d sworn to protect. Before, Ana had been there to hold Pharah back. To keep her from doing what it was she wanted to do the most. She wasn’t there now. She wasn’t there to stop the self-destructiveness that Pharah’s isolation, drinking and depression had spired in her mind. She wasn’t there to stop her only daughter from rushing into what could in many cases be considered certain death. Advancing on a likely enemy position with no aid or intel? Only few walked away from that with their lives still intact.

And in this case, Pharah didn’t intend to.

The soldier had half-expected her demise to be waiting as she stepped into the Firelight aircraft. The Firelight was designed for speed and efficiency, not transportation. Its interior was a long, narrow hallway with seating for two additional passengers other than the pilot and co-pilot. First thing Pharah did upon entering was look to the back of the plane where the passenger seats were located. They were empty and the voice of reason that had been beaten into her from countless hours in the field cursed at her. This meant that whoever was in plane was in the cockpit. Behind her.

She waited for a moment, expecting to feel brief, blinding pain before existence faded and her vision grew dark. She readied herself for it, prepared for the feeling of release as the inevitable gunshot would end this misery she was feeling.

But nothing.

So Pharah turned and immediately froze. Her entire body locked in stunned disbelief. Her eyes, earlier bright with frustration and anger, widened. She nearly dropped her gun, as her gaze went to the leaning figure, slowly staggering down the Firelight’s hallway. Small and lithe, wearing a baggy jumpsuit colored in grey and brownish red stains. Brown hair, usually so vibrant and unruly, made smooth by sweat. The figure looked up, her face a grim mask of dried blood and purple bruises. And she smiled.

Fareeha couldn’t move. She couldn’t speak. She could only watch as Tracer took another step forward and grimaced in agony from the exertion.

The gasp of pain brought Pharah out of her stun. She holstered the pistol and rushed to Tracer, holding out her hands towards the young woman helplessly. Tracer’s relieved smile had vanished from her now and her stance seemed much less steady than it had a moment ago.

“Ana! I need help in here!” Pharah yelled out of the door, before she turned back towards Tracer. She had slumped against the wall now, her eyes falling closed. “Lena? God… Lena, what… what happened to you?”

“Long story…” Tracer’s voice was ragged and weak. Her eyes were still closed. “I don’t need the help. I… I’m fine.”

Pharah looked the girl over, not saying anything. Tracer was leaning awkwardly, one hand pushed against the side of her torso. Her faced was peppered with wounds and bruises, her skin and hands craggy from dried blood. Then Lena opened her eyes suddenly, and took a brisk step towards Pharah. She would have fallen, had the soldier not instinctively caught her.

“Angela!”

The word was said with such intensity and fear that, for a second, its true meaning didn’t register in Pharah’s mind. There was a flush of memories at the mention. Of soft skin and sheets. Of coffee and longing and loneliness. Of rage and anger. And then finally the falling sensation of gut-wrenching panic.

Fareeha let go of Tracer, nearly pushing her aside as she ran towards the front of the plane. Faintly, she registered movement behind her, as Ana entered the Firelight as well, followed by Reinhardt’s massive frame, but they were just shadows to her now. She only saw the door to the cockpit, half-closed and waiting for her. Beckoning her to open it and reveal what she thought she would only find in nightmares.

Angela was sitting in the co-pilot seat, face turned away from Fareeha when she entered. Her blonde hair - her soft, beautiful hair - was a tangled mess of blood and sweat. She was wearing an over-sized, once-white shirt with a missing sleeve, now largely stained red. A makeshift bandage had been tied around her waist, now deeply soaked with blood. One hand hung limply down to her side, fingers curled upward, unmoving.

_… unmoving._

Fareeha rushed to the chair, and turned Angela to face her. Her face was broken and bruised, her eyes closed and her lip was split. There were streaks in the grime on her face where tears had washed away the drying blood. She didn’t respond to the movement. Didn’t groan or whine. She just… sat. Still and silent.

“No…” Fareeha felt the panic rise in her throat like bile. “Don’t… no, this… no!”

She unbuckled Angela from the seat and lifted her up, trying to ignore the sickening sight of the blood soaked into the chair. Fareeha held Angela in her arms gently, as a mother would hold a baby, trying to ignore the rising panic thumping in her chest. The tears flowed freely and uncontrolled, rolling down over her cheeks, but Fareeha didn’t care. She didn’t care at all.

“Mother!” Her voice resounded through the aircraft as she began the walk down the hallway. She wanted to sprint, but she didn’t dare. She didn’t dare move too rashly.

Ana was outside the Firelight. Tracer was leaning heavily against Reinhardt, barely standing on her own as Fareeha exited, wild eyes locking onto her mother who had been inspecting Tracer’s wounds. She turned upon hearing her daughter cry and her one eye widened in shock, as Fareeha began her descent, the unconscious Angela lying still in her arms.

“Mother. It’s… I…” Fareeha’s voice cracked as she looked down at Angela. “I can’t do anything.”

There was a pause as the shock settled in Ana Amari and the soldier returned to her senses. Softly, she put her fingers against Mercy’s throat, looking but not expecting to find what her daughter was so desperately hoping would be there. The pale doctor was bloody all over, and where she wasn’t there were bruises instead. Ana had seen people make miraculous recoveries, but this was something else entirely.

Then her fingers stopped and she froze. She pushed into the skin slightly for a moment, feeling more thoroughly. She leaned over Angela, putting her ear against the doctor’s mouth.

“God…” Ana looked up at her daughter, at her tear stricken face. She then turned, pulling Fareeha with her as she broke into a walk so fast it was nearly running. “We need to get her to the medbay. Quickly. Reinhardt, follow!”

In an instant, Reinhardt had swooped Tracer into his arms and followed them as they rushed towards the doors leading to the medbay. Behind them, Fareeha noticed movement as Torbjörn, Brigitte and Winston arrived in the hangar, summoned by Athena’s alarms. Fareeha half noticed them catch up and start talking to Reinhardt, but she couldn’t make out what they were saying. She wasn’t trying to. She was too focused on not looking down at Angela’s broken face as she followed her mother through the Watchpoint hallways.

The medbay was clean as always when they entered, the medical beds made and now free of any resident, since Mei had been given her own quarters a few days prior. Following Ana’s gesturing, Fareeha gingerly put Angela down on one of the beds, her hands coming away red with blood.

“I need everyone out of here this instant,” Ana said, looking back at Reinhardt, who had put Tracer down on a neighboring bed. The young woman’s eyes were closed, now finally able to give in to the exhaustion her body was feeling. “Get Zhou down here. She won’t be able to do much, but I need her assistance regardless.”

Fareeha only half heard her mother speak. She was too focused on the serenity in Angela’s face. If one looked past the bruising and the blood, it almost looked as if she was sleeping. Just readying herself to wake up after a long rest.

Then she felt large hands on her arms, pulling her away from the bed. She was ready to let them lead her away when her mother shook her head sharply.  

“No, Reinhardt, I need her help with this.” Her mother’s steely eye locked onto Fareeha. “Will you be able to assist me?”

There was no braving her way around this question. This was not questioning her capability or blaming her for her reaction. This was a field medic in need of someone levelheaded and competent to aid them. Nothing else.

Taking a deep breath, Fareeha forced the shaking from her hands. Gave a nod. Her mother mirrored the gesture.

“Good… Then help me get this bandage off her.”

* * *

In her dreams, she was falling. Floating on clouds made of pure light and feeling warm hands caress her skin as the sun’s rays fell over her in waves. It felt real but it couldn’t be. Of course, it couldn’t be. Nowhere was this calm. This serene and quiet.

Then, in her nightmares, she was screaming. There was pain from where blades and knives pierced her skin. Of rough, callused fingers digging into her flesh, wanting. Possessive. She cried and yelled. Her throat felt torn from the screams and her muscles ached from fighting the dark shadows cackling around her.

They laughed. And laughed. Occasionally there were words, but they were dark and guttural, completely removed from reality. Ghosts. Demons, reaching for her.

She wanted to wake. She tried to wake up, but whenever she did flutter to consciousness it was always brief. Coldness shooting into her veins and then her dreams returned. Fluffy and perfect. And brief. Then the nightmares came, with their pain and cries. Always, they came, in some way or another.

Sometimes, the demons would have faces. Joyson’s smooth features, that boy Krone and his sickly charm. Fareeha’s smile, turning into a manic grim with teeth red from blood and skin shiny from sweat.

She thrashed against the terror, until that too was stopped. She felt her body being pinned down. Felt herself being unable to move. The panic would come then. Her focus, even within the nightmare, would shift and she would feel herself lying on cold, grey stone in a Talon facility, Lena’s tear-stricken face looking down at her.

Lena had been strong. And smart. Angela thought she knew pain. That she knew fear and suffering. But seeing Lena’s face… the guilt and frustration in her eyes… and yet she didn’t speak up. She had been strong.

Joyson had gone past all that. The voice of her interrogator, whispering sweetly in her ear, that every wound, every _pain_ acted out on Angela… Lena would feel ten times over.

If Lena hadn’t told them what they wanted to know, Joyson would have moved his interest from Angela to the young brownhaired woman whom Angela had come to think of as near family, exercising his sick powers over her small body.

Would she have been as strong as Lena? Would she have been able to keep quiet as the younger woman fought her restraints and screamed her throat raw, while Joyson or some other madman let his sadistic nature loose on her body?

The fact that she wasn’t sure frightened her more than anything. It was what the demons whispered at her when the nightmares were at their worst.

_You know the pain she would suffer._

_You asked her not to talk. Quiet, does it._

_Heartless and cruel… So much for the merciful angel._

_You wanted it to be her turn at the stockade._

_You wanted to see her beaten and tortured, just so it wouldn’t have to be you any longer._

At first Angela denied the thoughts intruding into her mind. She denied that she hadn’t wanted Lena to keep her mouth shut. She dismissed the idea that Angela would rather have seen one of her nearest friends beaten into a bloody mess on the ground than give up any information. And she ignored the cruel thought that her previous encounters with pain and loss would make the act of staying quiet almost too easy.

There was a reason they had beaten her and not Lena. It wasn’t because Lena’s connection with the Slipstream tech was useful or that they suspected Angela would be more likely to respond to pain. No, it was because something in Angela had fractured a long time ago, and the time spent in the Talon prison cells had shattered it. Cruel reality was a harsh teacher… and Angela had been too ready to see Lena die if it meant the rest of her friends were safe.

These thoughts appeared in the hellscape of her nightmares as the many-faced demons, laughing and napping at her flesh. Angela tried to look past them. Tried not to let their blunt honesty shatter her into pieces… but as the hellscape continued, her grip of reality started to wane. The border between truth and nightmare blurred into a film of pain and jarring realizations which poked at her mind like cold, icy needles. Reality became harder to pinpoint. Every kindness, every happy moment started to disappear in favor of guilt at what her tortured mind conjured up to blame herself for the horror she’d been through.

She couldn’t hate Lena for not stopping it earlier. She couldn’t hate her for doing exactly what years of training had taught her to do. It was much easier to hate herself in that regard. Much simpler and morbidly familiar.

Her life had been a long series of what-ifs and poor decisions resulting in those around her dying. Children led to an assumed refuge, which would then disappear in an explosion of ash and crumbled rubble. People who had to forgo treatment, because the use of the equipment was reserved to special units only. Her father pulling a support beam away from her mother’s broken corpse as Angela stared, unable to move in the ruins of what had once been their home.  

Too many times she had lost someone she loved. Her parents, killed in the burn of a warzone. Ana, her mentor and guide who had abandoned her with no regard for the devastated people she’d leave in her wake. Lena, almost left to die to an enemy grenade. Fareeha, who…

… who…

… who what? Who had lost people under her command dozens of times? Who had lost her station and future, after joining the technically criminal organization that was Overwatch? Who had lost her mother to a conjured grave? Who had lost Angela…

She remembered the scream she’d heard as she lay bleeding on the ground after she dove from that roof. A wail of pain and fury. That was not the sound of someone losing a soldier. Or of someone losing control of their command.

The thought of Fareeha was a light in the darkness of Angela’s mind. Not enough to burn away the guilt and self-loathing her subconscious had built up for her, but enough to push away the shadows circling her. The pain diminished somewhat. The darkness grew less black and more grey. She felt her body grow both heavy and light at the same time, as she started to feel the world around her and her muscles untensed. Soft sheets against her skin. The scent of disinfectant and saltwater. A light sound of breathing close by her bed.

Slowly, _painfully_ , Angela opened her eyes.

She was in the medbay. It was late, the nightlights were on. Dimmed fluorescents that would flicker occasionally. They would have to get it fixed.

She was lying on her stomach, arms and legs tied down to the bed’s sides. Not tightly enough to be uncomfortable, but enough so that she couldn’t move much. Or hurt herself.

And next to the bed sat a figure. Tanned skin, black, unwashed hair. The leather jacket she usually wore was slumped over the back of the chair she sat on. Her eyes were closed.

The ache flashing in Angela’s chest was unfamiliar from the pain she’d gotten used to in her nightmares. She moved her hand towards Fareeha, a slight whimper escaping her lips as the longing to touch, to feel, was interrupted by the restraints. But it was enough.

Fareeha’s deep eyes shot open, immediately finding Angela’s pale face. Seeing her reaching fingers.

With no hesitation, she grabbed Angela’s hand with her own two, their fingers intertwining as Fareeha kneeled down next to the bed.

“Angela…”

Her voice turned the ache in Angela’s chest into fire and, before she could stop herself, tears were welling up in her eyes.

“Le… Lena… Is she…” she managed through cracked, dry lips.

“She’s fine. She’s completely fine,” Fareeha assured her. “You’re both safe now.”

Angela’s grip on Fareeha’s hands strengthened. Her nails dug into Fareeha’s skin, but the soldier didn’t seem to notice.

“Please…” Her voice was thick. “Don’t… leave…”

“I won’t.” Fareeha bent down and kissed Angela’s gripping fingers. She didn’t straighten, instead leaving her head resting on Angela’s hand. She felt wet tears on her skin. “I promise I won’t.”

“Thank… you…” Her voice was ragged. Speaking was exhausting. Angela felt her eyelids grow heavy.

“Sleep, Angela,” Fareeha said softly, raising her head to look at her. “I’ll be here. I won’t leave.”

Angela tried to nod, but she wasn’t sure if she managed. Instead, she closed her eyes, falling into the floating dream state she had become so familiar with. Only now there were no clouds. Now there were no shadows. There was only blessed silence.

And the feel of gentle fingers linking with her own.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey again. As I said... the update came. It just took a long-ass time. 
> 
> I wish I could tell you updates in this fic would become more stable. I wish I could tell you I was going back to posting a chapter every week, like I did in the beginning. But I can’t.  
> Life has not been kind to me for the past six months. Far from it, in fact. I’ve dealt with what felt like a thousand things all at once, and, to those of you who have waited patiently for updates to this story, I apologize that my personal life is hindering it. I really am (I know this sounds extremely passive-aggressive, but I swear, it is not meant to).  
> I want to write more than anything. I want to create and share and experience a world along with other people. But with how my life is going right now, I am just not sure how much time I’ll get to work on this project currently. 
> 
> I will still work on it. I will still post new chapters. But it will take time and time is something I don’t have a lot of right now. 
> 
> To the people who leave me comments of encouragement and excitement, thank you so much for your words. To the people taken aback by the violence of the last chapter, I hope that it wasn’t too bad for you and I will remind everyone that chapters containing that sort of content will always have a disclaimer at the very start of the chapter so people are not ever forced to read something they do not want to read. 
> 
> Thank you to everyone who is still with me in this crazy endeavor. You are all patient and amazing for being so. Thank you. 
> 
> Next chapter is on the way.


	12. Different

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: This is some depressing stuff and might be disturbing to some people.

It was an odd feeling standing outside the door to Angela’s room. Especially at this hour. The lights had turned dim in the dark of the evening, bringing a sharp memory of alcohol and fervent kisses to Fareeha’s mind. The last time she’d stood there had been the night she and Angela were together for the first time. The _only_ time. They hadn’t done anything more incredulous than handholding after that. Once, they had nearly kissed when they thought they were alone in the kitchen, before Lena had barged in, rudely interrupting.

Sometimes Fareeha wondered if it had all just been some sort of weird dream. Maybe something that had happened to a different person in a different place, a different time. But then her eyes would lock with Angela’s over the conference table. Through the open door to the medbay. Across the aircraft hangar.

Fareeha shook her head in protest. She did not want to think about that right now. She couldn’t think about that. Whenever her thoughts returned to that night, that one night where she had broken all the rules and hadn’t regretted it, it felt as if her stomach filled up with ice. Angela’s teasing smile. Her lewd, drooped eyes and quivering mouth. The memory felt tarnished by her thinking of it in this moment.

Fareeha turned away from the door, as if to walk away. This was idiotic. Angela did not want to see her. She did not want to see anyone; she’d made it clear she wanted to be alone. Time to… rehabilitate? Was that the word she’d used? Fareeha had been there when Ana discharged Angela from the medbay. Her pale, blue eyes had been dead when she left the room, passing past Fareeha as if she wasn’t even there.

She still didn’t fully know what had happened to Angela in the Talon base. Lena had, of course, given a report, but it didn’t go into details. Whenever anyone had tried to ask Lena about it further, she would go silent and make up an excuse to leave the room. The base, even. Lena would spent as many hours of daylight she could outside of the Watchpoint’s walls, exploring the island much like Fareeha had done in the days of Lena and Angela’s disappearance, and when she returned she seemed ill at ease and uncomfortable. She refused to sleep in her room. She’d taken one look at the windowless walls and hastily withdrawn to the hangar, stating she’d be fine sleeping there. No one had protested.

Angela had given a report too, but Fareeha hadn’t read it. Ana was the only one who had. It was per Angela’s request that the report be kept private unless the details of it became crucial to the organization’s development. She’d said it with a voice dead of emotion and downturned eyes.

With the exception of when she’d first woken up after her surgery, Angela had not spoken much. Fareeha subconsciously ran her fingers over the spot on her hand where Angela had seized it as if it was a lifeline. There had been such fear in her eyes then. She had pleaded Fareeha not to leave her with a voice trembling from unbridled terror. Fareeha clenched her fists together.

She had seen the wounds left as grim reminders on Angela’s back. She’d help Ana clean them, change the bandages, helped hold Angela down when she screamed and thrashed from night terrors.

“She should be dead,” Ana had confided in her after the surgery. “Her wounds, the blood loss. Any normal person could never have survived that.”

Fareeha hadn’t spoken. Her hands arms and clothes had been sticky with crimson and sweat. She hadn’t felt very talkative.

“If it wasn’t for the nanites in her bloodstream, she would have died before the plane landed. There’s no question. Hell, she was barely breathing when she got here. If Lena had been just moments slower-”

Fareeha had then told her mother to be quiet. She didn’t need to hear how they had almost lost Angela a second time, and Ana seemed to realize as well. When she later told the others that Angela was stable, she refrained from mentioning how close they had come to losing another Overwatch agent.

“Stop being scared,” Fareeha whispered to herself. Angela’s room was behind her. The room she’d entered through with a mostly empty bottle of cheap booze only a few weeks ago, and where she had buried her fingers in golden blond hair. That was where Fareeha had given in to a desire she didn’t know existed, but knew to be wrong. She’d woken in a bed smelling of sweat and sex, making teasing small talk with a woman too confident with herself in that moment.

Yes. She was afraid. Because it had not been that woman Fareeha had carried out of that aircraft. This woman was a broken and ashen shell of what she had been, and it made Fareeha furious.

The anger was enough. She turned on her heel and rapped quickly on Angela’s door.

A long moment of silence passed. Had the circumstances been different, Fareeha might have considered that Angela wasn’t there, but unlike Lena who seemed to have become allergic to the interior of the building, Angela had receded into solitude. She didn’t speak, unless asked a question. She didn’t move, unless it was required of her for medical tests.

Fareeha knocked on the door again. Harder. Another moment of silence dragged out in the dimly lit hallway.

“Who is there?” said a strained, low voice through the door.  

Fareeha swallowed. “It’s me. It’s Fareeha.”

Silence.

“What do you want?”

The steel in Angela’s voice took Fareeha by surprise.

“I wanted to check in on you,” she said matter-of-factly. “To make sure you were alright.”

“I’m fine.” Her voice was flat, but Fareeha sensed an undertone of iciness. Fareeha looked down at her feet, squarely placed outside the door. She was standing as if she expected someone to tackle her, she realized.

“Are you sure?” Fareeha asked, keeping her voice assertive.

“Yes.” Angela mirrored the tone. Cool and dismissive. “I am fine.”

“You haven’t come out much.”

A moment of silence. “You should go. Just… leave. I’ll be fine on my own.”

Fareeha took a deep breath. Anger was pricking at the nape of her neck, making her fists clench and unclench. She couldn’t precisely identify its origin, but its heat was familiar to her. When she’d commandeered in battle, anger was not a welcome emotion. It clouded judgments, it made you make mistakes, but in a fight, it could be translated into adrenaline. That was how the anger felt. Resting in her fingers, ready to strike at the door barring Angela from the protection Fareeha thought she needed. Fareeha had sat by Angela’s side for days while she was in the medbay, barely sleeping due to Angela’s frequent seizing and screaming. Every time, Fareeha had felt like a useless child staring down at a dying animal, until Ana would come rushing over and instruct Fareeha to hold Angela down. Force her to lie still.

She sighed deeply, letting the anger escape along with her breath. She leaned her back against Angela’s door and slid down until she was sitting on the hallway floor. A moment of silence passed.

“Are you still there?”

Fareeha nodded before she realized Angela couldn’t see her. “Yeah. I hope that’s okay.”

Silence. She leaned her head back against Angela’s door, feeling her heart rate slow down. Quiet. She closed her eyes for a moment.

“Why are you here?” Angela’s voice was sharp and bitter. Fareeha grimaced.

“I was… I am worried.”

“About me?”

“About everyone. They are all coming apart down there. They don’t know what to do.” 

A moment passed.

“What about Lena?” The sharp tone dulled. “I haven’t talked to her much since we…” Her voice trailed off.

“She’s coping,” Fareeha said. “She’s trying to, at least. It’s not easy for her.”

“Of course it’s not.” Angela’s voice was slightly more muffled now. There was a low thump against the door, along with a low groan, as Angela slid to the floor inside her room, now sitting in the same position as Fareeha was. “She didn’t deserve what happened.”

Fareeha wanted to pry. She wanted more reason to hate, to rage at the monsters who had broken their angel this brutally. “You know Lena told us what happened.” Angela had already heard of the report. “She only told us what she thought we needed to hear. Ana tried talking to her, but to no avail. That girl is more stubborn than a camel.”

There was a sound of something between a wheeze and a whimper on the other side of the door.

Another moment passed in silence.

“The others haven’t visited,” Angela then said. “They don’t like seeing me like this. All broken and--” Her voice broke off abruptly.

“They are scared,” Fareeha said.

“Of me?”

“Of themselves. I’ve seen how people get when they know they can’t help. They either overcompensate, or they run away.”

“People, huh?”

Fareeha grimaced. “Yes. People.”

“Right… but like I said; I’m fine. I’m not a doll.”

The urge to break down the door returned and Fareeha felt her fingers tingle. She forced her breathing to slow in response to the oncoming adrenaline. Her eyes drooped as she leaned her head back against the door.

“How are you feeling?”

A low huff came from the other side of the door, and it was hard for Fareeha to tell if it was mostly a laugh or a sob.

“Didn’t I just say? I’m--”

“You’re fine. I heard you.”

The silence that followed was acidic. It felt thick and heavy, as it stretched and stretched for what seemed like minutes. Fareeha didn’t want to speak again, fearing her frustration would make her snap even more. She wasn’t being fair, and she knew it.

There was a muffle as Angela changed her sitting position.

“I can’t sleep.” Angela’s voice was very low. “I want to, but… whenever I close my eyes…”

Fareeha remembered how frightened Angela had looked when she first woke up. Only after Fareeha had promised she wouldn’t go anywhere did she allow her body to return to sleep, but the rest was always short-lived.

Before that moment, Angela had frequent seizures, which would surge through her body in shockwaves, ripping open the healing wounds on her back. Fareeha had lost count of the amount of times she had held Angela down while her mother saw to stabilizing her.

Then, there were the night terrors. Angela hardly had a moment of rest without suddenly waking up, gasping and crying out in fear. Sometimes her eyes would open, but it was clear they saw nothing. Once she had fought Fareeha, pushing against her as she tried to make Angela lie still. She had screamed and screamed until Ana knocked her out with a sedative.

Fareeha wetted her dry lips. “You’re safe now. We’re here to protect you.” _I am here to protect you._

“Safe?” Angela scoffed. “This is only safe as long as we remain ghosts. How long do you think it will be before Talon finds this place too? Like they found Mei?”

“Then we fight.”

“Because that went so well the last time. Total success from our part. What would have happened if they’d gotten hold of the Caduceus staff? Or the Valkyrie suit? What if Lena had--” Angela’s voice turned intelligible. Suddenly, the hallway was very quiet. Quiet enough that it wasn’t hard to hear the low sobs from inside Angela’s room.

“Lena is strong and brave.” Fareeha kept her voice stern. “She followed protocol and made sure Talon’s _methods_ didn’t work. That they didn’t get what they wanted. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Angela laughed softly. “Right, sure I didn’t. I just sat there and let it happen. Let that… _creature_ beat me without even trying to fight back. Lena’s face… I could hardly take it, but if I cracked it would be her turn. They would turn on her and try to make me talk and--”

Another heavy sob silenced her words. Angela tried stifling her crying, but to no avail. Fareeha noticed her own vision was growing blurry and quickly wiped her eyes clear.

“Angela… do you want me to go?”

There was a long moment. So long Fareeha began to wonder if Angela hadn’t heard her.

“No.” A small voice, trembling and scared. “Please.”

“I won’t, then.” Fareeha let a hand run along the wood of the doorframe. “Can I come in?”

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea.” Angela’s voice was cracked. “I’m not exactly decent.”

“I don’t mind.”

“But I do, Fareeha.” Hearing her name on Angela’s lips was almost too much. Her knuckles were turning white. There was shuffling against the door. A sniffle and a sob. “I don’t want to be seen like this.”

Fareeha thought of Angela in her arms as they slept. Of them moving and breathing in unison, sharing air and pleasure.

She thought of the red mess of bloody soaked hair lying in the co-pilot seat of the Firelight. Of Angela thrashing against her protective restraints, gasping for air because her airways weren’t properly open, as the wounds on her back forced her to lie on her stomach. If she moved, she would scream in pain. When her body convulsed in shocked seizing, ripping her stiches open and soaking the bed with blood.

Fareeha breathed in deep.

“Please.” _I want to see you smile. I want to see you shoot that teasing grin at me again. I want to see you furrow your borrow as you look over medical records. Laugh with Torbjörn. Reprimand Lena. Teach Ana._ “I want to help.”

Silence again. Silence that stretched and stretched until Fareeha thought time might have stopped. There was no sound in the hallway. There was just Fareeha’s controlled breathing as she fought her building need to break down the door to Angela’s room. She knew it was selfish to feel that way. She knew it stemmed from her own, pathetic want to feel needed. That the ugly fear burning in her chest, the fear of losing someone who she was supposed to protect, would maybe go away if she was just able to pull Angela into her arms and assure her that nothing bad would ever happen to her again.

The door unlocked.

Fareeha turned, still sitting on the floor, as the door into Angela’s room opened up. It was like a distorted memory. Angela stood just as she had done, body half-hidden behind the open door, the lacy doctor’s coat replaced with a white robe. Her gaze was lowered, partially hiding the deep shadows beneath her eyes that were red from crying and a general lack of sleep. Her blonde hair was messy and unruly, but clean. Still damp, in fact. The darkness of the room behind her hid some of her features, but Fareeha could easily see the ugly bruising still prevalent on her skin.

She’d healed faster than expected while in the medbay. By any sound logic, she should still be in intensive care, but her body was working wonders, repairing itself rapidly and painfully. She’d been discharged just over a week after being brought in, and then Fareeha suspected the discharge hadn’t been Ana’s idea. Angela had been quite insistent on not being tied to a medical bed one second longer that she needed to.

Fareeha stood up, but didn’t move to enter. Angela fidgeted against the door. Her arms were crossed and her shoulders hunched. It was as if she was trying to make herself seem as small as possible. She wiped a hasty hand over her eyes. ”Come on in.”

Fareeha stepped inside, the scent of sleep and sweat hitting her nose as she entered. The door clicked as Angela closed it.

“Can you turn on the light?” Fareeha asked. The darkness was too familiar. This felt more and more like a twisted memory.

Angela hit the switch and soft light illuminated the room. The glow reached over the empty kitchen and the ruffled bed, and Fareeha felt her stomach clench. She looked back over at Angela and had to fight not to wince.

There were angry, harsh bruises on her wrists and neck. Her face was still a little swollen, and purple and yellow in places. Angela went to hug herself tighter, but stopped with a gasp, as the movement tucked on her still healing wounds. She lowered her gaze to the floor, refusing to look directly at Fareeha.

“I’m not the best company, I’m afraid,” Angela said, her voice was distant. She sat down on the bed, trying and failing to hide the pain she felt whenever she moved. Fareeha made to sit down next to her, but stopped when she noticed Angela’s body stiffen in response. Instead, she pushed one of the two kitchen chairs closer to the bed and sat down a few feet from Angela. She edged out of her jacket, vaguely remembering that it was the same as the one she’d worn on their last shared night together. Not that it was surprising. She didn’t own any other jackets.

“Do you want to talk?” Farreha asked after a long minute of silence. “About… about what happened?”

Angela shook her head. Her eyes hadn’t moved from their fixed position on the floor. Fareeha noticed her fingers were digging into the bed sheets.

“Alright. You don’t have to if you don’t want to.” She leaned back in the chair, looking over Angela as she did. The robe had slid down from one of her shoulders, showing a little skin. The dark purple shadows told Fareeha that Angela’s injuries were far from healed, and she grimaced before looking away.

“I don’t know how to talk about it.” Angela admitted. “There are too many things in my head to make sense of it all. And it hurts to think about, it’s like… it’s like there’s a snake coiling and churning in my stomach. It writhes and strangles me until I can’t breathe.”

Fareeha saw the tears well up in Angela’s deep blue eyes. Without even thinking she leaned forward to gently place her hand on Angela’s. She meant for the gesture to be comforting. To relive the moment of security Angela had found when she woke up and found Fareeha next to her bed.

The moment Fareeha’s hand touched Angela’s, Angela snatched the hand away as if Fareeha’s fingers were made of fire. “Don’t touch me.”

Fareeha’s hand was hanging limply, in surprise more so than anything. She hadn’t expected Angela to react like that. “I’m sorry, I… I shouldn’t have.”

Angela cradled her hand in her lap. She was rocking back and forth slightly, Fareeha noticed, and her eyelids were drooped. It didn’t stop the tears from welling out.

“No, it’s… it’s my fault.” She gasped out the words between low wheezes. “I shouldn’t have let you in here. I should have told you to go away.”

“Are you asking me to leave?”

Another headshake. “I should, but… No. No, I just… I can’t _not_ think about it. About _him_. About his soft words and veiled threats, all the while his expressionless gorilla of a goon was running his hands all over my--”

Angela looked away. Her body started shaking as sobs raked through her bruised body.

“I don’t want to be alone,” she continued after a moment. “But any voice becomes his voice. Any touch reminds me of the disgusting fingers of his henchman. He is even there when I sleep. He is waiting for me to close my eyes so he can get me again. And when he is done with me, he’ll find Lena and do all the horrible things he did to me all over again, except it will be Lena there screaming. My nightmares have shown me the truth; that I won’t do anything to stop it. I will just sit there and let it happen, because that is what we are trained to do. We are trained not to give up information in response to pain. So I watch as that man takes and strikes and touches and--”

Another stifled cry shivered through her body. This time she collapsed under it, bowing her head and hiding her face in her hands. Her body shook as she wept, partially from exhaustion, Fareeha reckoned.

Slowly, as not to scare the woman, Fareeha etched her chair closer to the bed. “Look at me, Angela.”

A tear stricken face appeared from behind quivering hands. She was staring at Fareeha, eyes red and shiny from tears. Her entire body was shaking as she drew raspy breaths into her bruised chest.

Fareeha looked at her. “Now listen to me. None of it was your fault, nor was it Lena’s fault. None of it, you hear me. The fault lies with a devil faced, Talon prick who has a very short and painful life ahead of him. We know where he is. I know his name, and with some research, I’ll know what he looks like. I promise you, right now, he will pay for everything he did to you. I will make sure of it.”

“And what if he gets you too? Then what?”

“If he gets me, I’ll snap his weasly little neck before he gets a chance to open his fucking mouth,” Fareeha snarled. She was surprised at the sincerity in her voice, and evidently so was Angela. Her crying stopped. Her shaking stilled.

“Are you still scared?” Fareeha asked.

“He’ll still be there,” Angela said, her focus sliding from Fareeha’s face. “In my dreams. My nightmares.”

“Not if I’m here,” Fareeha said, her voice softer now. “I’ll stay here tonight. Right here, next to you, so if you wake up you’ll see me and know you’re not in that place. I’ll help you through it, no matter how bad it gets. And I won’t leave you alone, not as long as you want me here.”

Angela’s shaking had completely stopped. Her confused look had turned into a stunned stare. “Why would you do that for me?”

Now it was Fareeha who had to look away. “When I was in a bad place, you were there to help me. I know we haven’t talked about that night much, and we don’t need to. I just… it meant a lot to me, even if it was just a onetime thing. You were so sweet and caring and I… I don’t know.”

“You feel like you owe me.”

“No.” Her voice was iron. “That is not true.”

“Then what? Pity?”

“Angela, please.” Fareeha moved to take Angela’s hand again, but stopped herself before she made contact. “I want to help you. I worry about you when I don’t know how you are. Seeing you in pain while you were in the medbay almost broke me, I could hardly stand it. It might be selfish of me to say these things. It sounds like I’m only trying to make myself feel better, and in a way, I am. But just because I am scared and fucked up doesn’t mean I can’t help you. You are smart, and beautiful, and brave, and alive. I have to remind myself every hour that you are alive. That I didn’t lose you in earnest.”

Angela’s face turned serious. “I don’t feel alive. I feel… different. I feel like I’m somewhere else. Someone else.”

Fareeha’s hands moved on their own again, lacing her fingers with Angela’s. This time she wasn’t shoved away. “I’m here no matter what. No matter where you go or who you have become. I’m right here.”

A moment passed between the two of them. A moment where neither spoke and neither moved. Where they just sat, quietly, looking at each other in honesty. They were barely aware their hands were touching, until Angela began leaning forward.

The kiss was brief and feather light. It was a brush of movement lasting only an instance. Fareeha barely registered it, it was so fast.

“I just wanted to try,” Angela said, as she sat back. Her eyes were dull and red. Tears were swelling again. “To see if it felt different.”

“And?” Fareeha tried to ignore how raspy her voice was.

“It’s the same. It felt the same. How can it feel the same when everything is so different? When I am this messed up, how can it possibly feel the same? It should be different!”

Fareeha took a moment to make sense of what Angela was saying. Her lips were burning where Angela had touched them, and Fareeha immediately pushed the influx of memories to the back of her mind. She tightened her grip on Angela’s hands, bringing her back to the present.

“Don’t let him break you. You can’t let him ruin you like this, you mustn’t. Feel me, Angela. Feel me, I am here. I am real, he isn’t. He is not here. He can’t hurt you.”

The tears were flowing again. “I am so scared, Fareeha.”

“I know you are. But you don’t have to be scared alone.”

The silence was deafening in the few seconds it took Angela to nod hesitantly. She made to turn to climb into bed, but she forgot to let go of Fareeha’s hand, half dragging her along as she went. Fareeha moved the chair along, placing it so she was sitting next to Angela’s pillow, still holding on to her hand.

“Promise me.”

Fareeha smiled and blinked. She hoped the faint light in the apartment would hide the tears swelling in her own eyes.

“I won’t leave you. I promise.”

Angela’s eyes closed before Fareeha finished the sentence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey ya'll.  
> So... long time no see. How you been? Good? Fantastic.
> 
> I apologize for the long-ass wait and then the chapter uploaded isn't even that "good." Meaning it's mostly just depressing stuff that nobody who wants to feel good about themselves should/would read.
> 
> Counting on the next chapter to be more... lively. Shadows may return, who knows. 
> 
> Until next time (which hopefully won't be another six months from now).


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